Sunyata

What is this frozen ground below me? There are remnants of little green things here and there, sprouting up between cracks in the ice. Remnants. Not buds. So I should be careful to not say ‘sprouting’ because that implies newness. There is no rebirth here. This is death. This is now.
Over there in the courtyard there is a fire burning, sitting alone inside a ring of wood. But from out here I cant feel the heat. There is no heat here. This is bitter. This is now.
I could walk for miles on this blanket of ice. It’s hard to distinguish the horizon because the clouds and the snow converge seamlessly. A white blindness. I could walk for miles and miles, unaware if I’m on the ground, or in the sky. I could walk on clouds in this blindness if I wanted to.
And if I died out here alone in the whiteness, in the ice… no one would know. I would freeze into nothingness. I wouldn’t be. There is nothing here. This is empty. This is now.