I provide meaning to my own meditation, even when a fake Buddha quote tells me otherwise, that there is Nothing to be achieved, but definitely something to be removed—mostly different baggage of different weights.
Ever since I can remember, I have homed in on empty space right in front of me. The gluts vibrate and the limbs dissipate that much energy in order to get to the relaxed state. Once in this state, I am again free to think of anything, or nothing, and most of the time, it’s the latter.
I have spaced out, zoned out, daydreamed, succumbed to solipsism, philosophized by my lonesome—the end product of all these personal struggles are the same: to empty my mind, to think of nothing, to optimize the RAM.
It’s not easy, but it’s a good start to accept the past. The splices of moments are the collection of efforts I exerted in that time, and it’s useful to me as a reminder that I, too, am prone to change, just like everyone else.
Even when capitalism begins to monetize mindfulness by making it a transition tool for more productive man-hours, we will know that in the space between our ears, there’s a deep-seated longing for quiet. When The Boss urges you to hit the ground running, literally doing nothing becomes a radical movement. Stillness becomes a peaceful protest of its own kind, against the prevailing system that just wouldn’t stop oscillating.
Privacy might soon be limited to the privileged, no thanks to the digitization of thoughts. In this ever-growing sphere of omnipresence, we must learn to save a mental space for ourselves in which we can safely breathe, do nothing, think of nothing.
Sorry if this psychobabble sounds delusional. Many of us try to perceive this harsh reality we live in an optimistic-nihilistic lens, but our attempts can only do so much.
“Emptying my mind” so far has worked for me. My practice began with me just focusing in my breathing, my eyes slightly closed…
Later in life, we will look back at this moment,
and not say anything, for to do so would be to disrespect the silence that entrenched,
the stillness we endured, enjoyed.
We will not be fond of speaking when we remember,
because in the process of pulling the memories,
it would mean more to recall accurately what we had been through, than to speak of it.