The Lights Out at The End of The Tunnel

An indecisive rain swarms the green leaves of the trees, and the flowers that mourn their pollen snatched by these undecided raindrops, while the wind blows lightly upon the outer world. The streets are almost deserted, and those who do not have the "privilege to work", in this period of global pandemic, probably hide behind some coffee, tea, or a beautifully colored phone screen, revealing imaginary and false worlds having the sole purpose of “killing time”, for their users.

I could write poems, having this type of weather as a background, but I'm not a poet, I haven't been, and I've never tried to become one. I can't even say that I like poetry, although I read a lot of poems by the controversial Mihai Eminescu, one of the geniuses of Romanian literature. I was attracted more by prose, long novels and full of stories, but also by "sacred texts" and cheap philosophy that promises to elucidate the greatest mysteries of the world.

If I were to write poems, maybe I would write like George Bacovia, filling gray pages ,and pouring cheap rum on the covers of their books, but no, I don't write poems, nor novels, nor books of philosophy, or personal development, although that I could do it, if I want to. However, I like to philosophize, to ask questions, and to question the questions, to trust my gut when walking on the wrong path, and to strongly reject what does not resonate with me.

Maybe that's why I often get into such introspective states when I ask myself certain questions, with or without the help of a rainy day, and I remember such an evening, when overwhelmed by thoughts of frustration, remorse and unfulfilled desires, many hidden way too clever to be found, I was looking to blame something, or someone, for the failures in my life, for the failures and missed chances... and I even thought of a few names that would make the case but, ...

..would those people really deserve to bear the burden of these thoughts of mine, and wasn't I the only sculptor of this monument that I call ME? So I started to blame myself and argue with myself, in the world of my own mind, for a few good minutes, considering that maybe this is how I will put out the fire of these frustrations, grievances and tormenting thoughts but... it didn't work.

Because I soon realized that I was not those memories, or the shadows of some sort of an I that could be accused of something. I am what I am, as the great Nisargadatta Maharaj used to define himself many times, and those selves that I had brought before an imaginary judge practically did not exist, nor could they have paid for anything, even if they existed. They were just memories, images of events, which I foolishly consider to be defining for me, and which still seemed real but, nothing more than mere fragments of memory... possibly an altered.

However, there had to be a guilty one for everything that wouldn't let me sleep at almost 3 AM, so I went on, thinking that maybe God, or karma, or some kind of a demon, are the ones to be blamed, and that they they should be held accountable for all this, but at the same time I was asking myself "how can an external factor loose an internal trial". It's not possible, I thought. So who else can be taken out of some hidden place, of my mind, to be brought into the dock?

Nobody, nothing, was the answer that helped me fall asleep ultimately. A simple answer, but difficult to anticipate, when someone is in such a vortex that seems difficult to reach and disperse. However, many of us are constantly looking for culprits for all sorts of personal problems, and conflicts that arise, and will occur until the last breath. The need for outward orientation, for external sources and causes, is probably the primary sin, and the plague that consumes us huge amounts of physical and mental energy, almost daily.

The truth though is that sometimes there is no answer, or guilty party, for such sleepless thoughts and birth of such ghosts, so who's there to be blamed when there's no one to get on trial? Who gets the punishment and sorrow?... Does it really have to be one?

Thanks for attention,
Adrian