I bear a little book close to my heart where ever I go. I don’t understand it. It’s written in strange words, backward meanings hidden so plainly in clear sight I can almost trip on them. I cipher a line and it’s like lightning in my head—electric jumps of cold/warm water down my spine.
Aaah, I say. That’s right. That’s all I need to know.
I close the little book until next time. (but my bookmark keeps it open, you see.)
It says stop to go.
It says up is down.
It says doing is undoing,
and caring too much only hurts what you care for.
In pursuit of knowledge everyday something is added.
In reading my little book, everyday something is dropped.
Eventually, I’ll drop everything, (even the little book)—and I’ll reach non-action. What can I drop when I have nothing? When I have nothing, there’s no essence of anything and finally…
A very short sentence.