I was looking through my old phone’s notes… a collection of words, most of which do not form complete sentences, semi-shorthand notes taken in a hurry to remind me of what to write later. But it was a ‘later’ largely to late, because, to my aghast, many of the notes are incoherent now. I can only guess what they were supposed to mean.
This seems like a parallel to how my life is led at times… learning in fragmented pieces unmindfully – which is a pity and a waste of time… leading to fragmented pieces of memory, that become further fragmented in time. Writing helps to piece it all together… before I forget totally. A wish is to be able to publish all the writings for posterity’s sake, for whatever they are worth.
In a future life, if my books are still available, may I stumble upon them and say – ‘Yes, the stuff in there reflects my thinking.’ I wouldn’t need to write them down again, or to relearn it all on my own. Then again, I would want to grow too, to not be attached to previous thinking, especially that which is deluded, imperfect. Perhaps more time should be spent studying the sutras instead of penning personal mental fermentations – because the impersonal yet universal truth is already reflected in the sutras.