The Ocean at a Distance

He knelt at the banks of a gushing river; the gentle sound that arose from water crashing against the rocks, the foam that arose from the uneven flow was beauty unmatched. The beauty was an illusion; it hid the mighty force of the river.  At the far end he knew the river would meet its maker. The enormous ocean stood still, waiting patiently for the rivers to arrive to their final resting place. He knelt at the banks, gazing away into the distance, picturing the ocean. He was not far from meeting his maker either, death could not be eluded, and he knew that. He smiled at the thought of how no matter what path the rivers took, they always reached the ocean. It was true with all natural beings; each defines a purpose and strives to achieve but in the end there is no individual or a purpose. What then is the meaning of purpose, if at the end we are united with nothingness and every “different” man becomes united in a giant ocean, which remains uniform and simply exists, unchanged or marred by anything? He began reflecting on his own life. At a time so close to death, so close to the ocean, the journey seemed a haze. Worst of all it seemed pointless. Why must the river flow so forcefully, attempt to break anything that stands in its way, erode all that it touches to reach an eternal state of calm? The very idea that everything must be experienced in order to reach nothing drove him crazy. He had struggled, cheated, sacrificed, earned and worked all for nothing, a state of nothing. The journey, at its end, became clear and it laughed at him. It mocked him for believing in anything tangible. Everything that was real, now just appeared real. We live a full life to become empty at the end. What was the point? Why must the river flow? Why must it crash? Why must it rise? Why must it twist and bend? Why can’t the river, a spawn of the ocean, replicate the ocean and stay still? Why are we all running to the place we came from? Why are we aiming to go back to how we were before existence? If it is the natural order of things to return to their initial state of nothingness, then existence in itself must be an illusion, to exist must be devoid of “life”. Maybe, the river understands, maybe it sees through the veil, through the wholesome abundance of existence and hence is driven to move towards the ocean, understanding that it has been stripped of its life and asked to live. Could it really be that simple? Could nothing in our life matter? Is there a possibility that death was indeed life calling us back and not the end of life as we assume it to be? Should death be welcomed?

His breath began to fade slowly; he could feel the world around him shrink with his fading breath. It was nothing as he had ever imagined, the call of death was a loving one. There was no pain, it was easy, simple. He smiled as his eyes shut; the darkness was even more calming. He felt his body dwindle away from his mind, flopping forward into the river. He did not choke, for he was not breathing, his eyes were shut and his body disconnected. He felt movement, the speed ever increasing until finally he was surrounded by it, that calm and peace that he was searching for in the non-existent world where he had served death. Here he was alive and powerful. He was free in the truest sense of the word.

He welcomed life.

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