JPhilip Naim

Road to self

I once came upon a silent place on the very bottom of a valley where monks, one after another, would exile for the remainder of their lives. I sat on that same bench where for an indefinite amount of time, the drought days of summer through winter’s breeze used to pass through the glance of a man. He might have felt every branch shake, every thunder, every bloom and blizzard, while his posture was slowly imitating the rose beside me.