Wilderness

To have an anchor born from within, unrelated to the outside — that is the most ideal state.

White, grey, yellow, all covered in dust, all seem to have shrunk a notch shorter, a circle thinner.

On a rooftop, looking out in all four directions, you can instead see the true colours of the city: building upon building, high and low, standing there quietly — not so huge and bright as when you gaze up at them from below.

The honking horns have also receded. The eye is full of a jostling crowd, of car roofs the size of dustpans, ranked in rows, wriggling, as if dragged forward by invisible iron chains — somewhat laughable, starting and stopping, mechanical clumsy things.

The day you can quietly settle down this body of scrap copper and rotten iron, this monkey mind and horse will — that is the day you reach the wilderness.