The End of Desire

I could ask myself why do I happen to be folding my toes around this stone at the same time as this fly marching along a curl to my forehead falls headfirst onto my eyeball, and begins fighting for breath. But that is not my method. My method is to remove the question from the question I think myself to be, where all I can feel is the impermanence that is my listening to the question. I don’t deny it. It’s just that I know as I want to respect this struggling fly, I can also send my hand through this reflection of a cloud for a palm full of water to penetrate the question I think I can’t ask, though I ask it every moment I am alive. This black hole of mine is the question I am, making a space for himself on the other side of a nothing. I can go there and have a vision of my blindness, imagine this fly as this water, cooling my eye, to learn that I can ask the fly I think myself to be, to ask me, do you want what you want?