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What is the nature of the interior language of the self, perhaps the soul; this cloud of meaning that gathers within our brain, the music of thought, the montage of images, the symphonies of sound, theaters and cathedrals of memory, the smile of the mother, laughter of the friend, sigh of the lover, the taste of a kiss, the fragrance of a Christmas dinner?
There is the labyrinth within, the endless maze. Tibetan monks lost in arcane hierarchies of consciousness. The flesh burning in blue flames of siddhis within a frozen Himalayan cave. Hermes Trismegistus as above, so below. Can the mind perfect itself at the expense of the body? Source for yogic practice. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Issues in translation become emblematic: the vodka is good, but the meat is rotten.
All dharmas are empty.- The Large Sutra on Perfect Wisdom: With the Divisions of the Abhisamayalankara By Edward Conze
