When he is practicing Tai Chi in the woods, I can see what he experiences.
From where I stand, I notice that his nostrils flair upon reacting to the nearby stench of a rotting bird. Like the carcass of tradition, his bright green sneakers grip the loamy soil beneath him. His ears are clogged with headphones. His eyes are shut tightly, as if straining to cut off connection with the world, alive around him. He is trying to reconnect with himself-- excluding that he is connected with all of the self apart from him.
I can see that he is becoming aware of a nearby bird. Through some sort of vibrational dexterity, there is notice of a brown thrasher rustling around in the bush nearby. One of his eyes open, reluctant, to see what may be disturbing him.
I visualize his expression from here, attuning to his attitude and his energy. He is annoyed. I see more than just his wavering attention on the task at hand. My sight reveals just how interested he is in finding himself, seeing himself, and feeling himself: no interest whatsoever. He has taken on this task as a fling with nature and the universe. His shirtless facade is shaved, tattooed, and housing a lazy diaphragm.
My sight reveals more: the stress of his brow, hidden from the sun within the canopy of the tree-tops. The tension in his back as sweat beads in only a few places. The strains of the world afar reaching him here, grasping him by the bollocks and controlling him like the marionette that he has become.
A vision of stone erupts from my mind. A man standing just as he does-- rigid in the dying of the sun, and rigid in the dying of man. Too stubborn to remove themselves from self, and too flagrant in their greed to notice.
My sight is steady, the metal hoop pin-pointing this statue centering him. My hands are sweaty, feet and legs gripping the tree branch which I lay on. The bullet makes contact as he begins to change the station of music on his phone.
Like the stone I see, he collapses, and lays on the ground motionless.
Someone will find him soon. They will find the twelve others that I have found first.
And when they do-- the split second that they pity this life will be one of their only encounters with ego-less existence.
"Namaste."
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