Prophet of Samskara

There were 3 of us; an artist, a musician and a philosopher.

The musician serenaded the past with poems riddled with melancholia and through his song, I watched the beauty of creation unfold only to be destroyed by our starving greed; the artist painted the picture with the tip of a black pen and she covered the page with horrors to match Dante’s Inferno… her own inner vision of hell come to earth; while the philosopher tries in vain to understand ancient texts written in a language long lost to the human race..

But it was the philosopher who baffled me with words I could not comprehend for he spoke of Samskara and how our individual journey back towards the one source would be ridden with countless distractions to lure us away from our path. He spoke of attachments and binding knots wrought by our own hands; words wrapped in cryptic gibberish that made no sense to my hedonistic mind.

When the night ended, we turned silent as if mourning the passing of a friend but it was because we knew the exact moment would never repeat itself again. So I burned that memory into my mind and with my hand, I etched it on paper that it may at least last a fraction of eternity.

The beast was here all along…

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