Disappointing satisfaction


Disappointment implies satisfaction, but where is it born? Not in the same heart that feels the Void.
Not the emptiness that we fear, that friend called Death; that pure emptiness. Disappointment rides on the back of our attractions and commitments, scourging them with whips of prejudice and rejection. We fail as we choose and we are less as we become our choices. To not ally ourselves with the failed spectacle of daily life is to choose for ourselves in our empty hollowness.
Can’t see it? Can’t open our eyes to the blindness of preference and the failure of identifying with a world that can’t deliver what we really need? This constant choosing that claims to manifest us, make us belong, is weakness writ large.
The blind, at least, have the satisfaction that comes with their darkened sight. They know that they will never see. That must bring some peace, surely? Something less to have to choose for?
The rest of us, striving in this other darkness, have the illusion of light and understanding. We, the slaves of the sun and moon, see much less, because we deploy obstructions of preference. Embellishment is colour, form and structure.
What we like and what we hate stand in our way, and we think it is a bridge. But what bridge is so certain that it won’t collapse when overburdened?

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