Everything Is Suffering
Fleeting moments of bliss. The half-hour after my morning coffee, sweet silence punctuated by hungry meows or a distant lawnmower. The satisfaction of lust; tangled in blankets staring at the moonbeams sneaking in through half-closed blinds. The subtle hum of a lazy ceiling fan cooling the sweat from our skin.
This bliss is also misery, for it is perpetually ending, replaced in turn by myriad anxieties and flashes of pain. So we crave the next respite, we seek it out like addicts. We might dress it up, call it ambition or passion or something else with a noble bent, but it’s ultimately a desperate search for contentment.
This craving keeps me trapped here. No amount of wall-gazing makes a difference.
The dullard is always happy. That’s true wisdom.