Enough

Image by Niranjan Photography

The fountain in the front yard speaks to me like the river spoke to Siddhartha. I am not Siddhartha, but I have His regret, futility, and loss.  I also have His intuition of the voice whispering within waiting for me to pay attention.

Whenever I do in the nanosecond between drops before I am conscious that I am doing so and so am no longer, I am reminded that all the yelling provoking sophisticated sentences is meaningless noise, that the rage (my own included) that triggers such writing is indeed sound and fury signifying nothing.

It is not Siddhartha’s   nothing – the nothingness of action in inaction, of inaction in action but ours into whose void we scream our fear and anguish of not being seen, of not being heard, of not being recognized, of not Being, our shouts of execration not shouts of affirmation but of condemnation to louder screaming.

The fountain like the river, continues its flow, its drops the action in the inaction of motionless sitting, the sound of its water the inaction of silence in the action of reacting with the equations  of rage so well formulated.

The fountain does what fountains do.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.