Ravings: Going Mad

Whatever comes, it comes, whatever goes, it goes, but whatever stays, it will not stay forever. The impermanence of all loves, of all hates, of all desires, flowing like a river, ends in death. Dances start, and dances end, a score begins, but the players should finish the piece, and a race without a finish line is without a winner, without a purpose, and must be abandoned by the wise.

I have desired what is permanent; I looked to the sky and trees, and in them I saw the lazy clouds and twittering birds—they were not far from me—but I am not satisfied. Even this, my longing to long, it grows colder.

I may sit and watch an ever running river rolling off to the sea, or I may sit on the shore of a great ocean and know the continual comings and goings of the waves—were my dreams not so troubling, I could sleep.

But my dreams do trouble me, and my soul burns inside.

Death comes, I know, but will it ever go? will it stay forever? What are these dreams inside my head? I have longed for what is, what does not come or go, but is. I want that which was and is and will forever be, but my head is on fire, my vision blurred, and all the truth I know, I can only know by faith.

Dreams encroach, but they also must go. What stands through all this feigning reality? I have searched for the end of all these things, of rivers, of waves, of death, and I have gone mad.