The Weight of Illusion

Life, as we know it,

is like mist

resting upon a quiet pond—

beautiful,

convincing,

yet gone

with the first breath of morning.

We spend our days

grasping reflections,

calling them permanent,

building homes

upon passing clouds.

The mountain smiles,

for it has watched

a thousand generations

mistake the dream

for the dreamer.

Within the water,

the koi continue to swim,

tracing gentle circles

beneath the lotus leaves.

They ask for nothing.

They possess nothing.

The pond is enough.

A breeze arrives,

and the mist begins

to lift.

Not as a loss,

but as a returning.

The shoreline fades.

The boundaries soften.

Sky and water

forget which is which.

The self,

so carefully protected,

dissolves

like dew

meeting the morning sun.

What remains

cannot be named.

Not because it is hidden,

but because it has never

been separate.

The koi remain

in their quiet pond,

the lotus opens

to the light,

and we,

having laid down

the weight of illusion,

fade gently

into the morning mist—

not disappearing,

but becoming

what we always were.

There is no cage

to escape,

only the belief

that one existed.

And when that belief

drifts away

like fog before dawn,

freedom does not arrive.

It is simply

recognized.