paintings 7
In Shunyata Cohsai-the hermit ceases to be a person. That which is outside the knower and that which is inside is the same. Humanity like a narcotic vision.
Shunyata is the same for everyone. In the bedroom of the fingers. It's the same reality. In the bedroom of the eyes. With a meat and bone perspective.
If she didn't try to find it on her own, she would never find it. She killed all the teachers. She did not follow the path, such is her characteristic.
Dulled mind, tired and discouraged dies. Depositors of the only right way to Shunyata. Cohsai killed them all.
Nothing will be the same for Cohsai anymore. The basis of reality has changed. Shunjata can no longer be overlooked.
A crystal clear mind, without the stain of humanism. This is Cohsai's ideal psychosphere. To control the ego, Cohsai does not identify herself with the actions of the subconscious. Entangled in reality, Cohsai was not afraid of death, she was afraid of the howling of her body.
Cohsai holds back the instinct to identify. You can then see the nails of consciousness growing ever slower.
It is not true that Cohsai has no access. Self-awareness is resistance. To perform the simplest action, the Cohsai creates a whole series of resistances. Without resistance, the Cohsai dies every time. That's when time stops flowing.
The Shunyata is used to drive nails.
Cohsai was not born, it was given birth. The body eats, excretes and has sex without Cohsai's consent. He is a conglomeration of the personalities he encountered. Cohsai, realize your luminous burning. Where you are in all of this.
Everything she has - weighs her down. Everything she has - drags her feet. Everything she has - gives birth to violence. Cohsai gives birth to blood. Everything she has - ready to die. Everything she has - a reality without identification. As of now, the only one.
The prisoner's perspective from the outside. It is empty. It drowns out the effervescent brain by not indulging in superstition. This inevitably distances Cohsai from the fathers. Until the responsibility is removed by a psychiatrist. Still lightheaded, nauseous, barely moves his head. As if he had one big wound in his brain. He wanted his mother to take him to his defense and say it's not your fault. Two genes lean toward sobriety, while three others do not. He reacts by increasing his tolerance to Wellbutrin. Sometimes he says something about loneliness alone. The temptation of power grinds the blades of the future. Women are still inclined to accept this state of affairs.
Suffering by the kidneys, spinal canals in the swelling in the lymph nodes. It flows above the thyroid cartilage. Bone flesh wobbles on the ground. Great tension irritates telomeres. A string white as buckwheat hangs from a wooden pole. The decision maker anons a trail of streaks somewhere from around the Magellanic Clouds. Leaving the prison of the body.
Who breathes, eats and excretes. In whom the ego manifests itself. Who is canis lupus or blatta orientalis. Manifestations of resistance in tissue volume. Like desire in social affairs offices. Now there will be a third and fourth and fifth orgasm, two hundred states of consciousness per day. One hundred and five stairs up times ten. And again sweat on the stairs of the spine down. This is the blood of the first month. Not ten hours pass and Cohsai has it back.
Dissolving, it leaves ribs, spine and larger bones. He mixes the rest with a handful of hair. He adds attentiveness and pain. And entanglement. The experience of real resistance. When he gets rid of the body at nineteen twenty-eight, the resistance of the mind disappears. Beyond verbal knowledge, gone are her four-year-old daughter and freedom. The dogs of their hands. A whole life. One that never was.
