Sublime

the practice of detachment.

“Je suis malade.” Shattered, more like it. It shook me to the bone. I am sick. (Yes, we are.) She had left behind a note saying: La vie m’est insupportable. Pardonnez-moi.

form. As Zen master Dogen says, “Flowers fall with our attachment, and weeds spring up with our aversion.”

I went to dinner with my friend Emily who said, apropos of I can’t remember what, “I have a whole list of shit I refuse to think about.” I hadn’t realized other people were refusing to think about stuff too, hadn’t realized other people had these no-go areas. But of course, I realized, staring at Emily, adult life must be full of these blacked-out

We are highly judgmental survival-and-replication machines. We constantly walk around thinking, “I need this,” or “I need that,” trapped in the web of desires. Happiness is the state when nothing is missing. When nothing is missing, your mind shuts down and stops running into the past or future to regret something or to plan something. In that abse

Sadness is just sadness, no big deal. It comes and it goes.

“an exhaustive list of purported ailments—[is] carried around by a neurotic patient, often accompanied by extensive documentation of each bowel movement or sip of water.”