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I open my fingers to let everything go,
but living takes me away from sitting.
I sit now.
I imagine sitting even longer,
laminated in the transparent embrace
of lethargy.
Despair.
Call it what you will.
Sitting takes me away from living,
the source of the pain.
Is the solution to
open my fingers and let everything go?
Without wanting and clinging
will I experience no pain?
Don't know.
Don't know about anything at all
except the impossibility of action.
Sitting requires no action.
Can I sit for the rest of my days?
(What if I have been allotted
a hundred-plus years full of days?
That's a long sit.)
Today, torporous wallowing
is more of a comfort
than even a blooming forsythia branch.
More satisfying than a just-prepared
pancake or a mushroom risotto.
As long as I don't broadcast my melancholy message,
don't proselytize among the innocent,
surely it will do no harm.
Because finally, grudgingly,
I will rise from my chair
and dutifully re-engage with life.
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