Not Seeking Meaning

A young monk climbs the mountain,

counting each step as progress.

The peak stands before him—

solid, unmoving, real.

Rivers run where they must,

stones remain where they fall.

The world is simple:

a mountain is a mountain,

water is water.

Years pass like drifting clouds.

He returns to the same path,

but now the ground feels uncertain.

The mountain dissolves in his thoughts—

no edge, no center, no name.

Water slips through his fingers,

never once held.

What he called “river”

is only movement,

what he called “mountain”

only a moment of form.

He laughs, then grows quiet.

Nothing can be grasped.

Nothing stands alone.

Time passes again—

though he no longer counts it.

One morning,

he climbs without climbing.

The mountain rises

as it always has.

It does not ask to be explained.

Water flows past his feet,

clear, cold, complete.

He drinks—

not seeking meaning.

The mountain is a mountain.

The water is water.

No longer burdened by knowing, 
no longer divided by doubt, 

he walks on—

and the world walks with him.