SIMPLICITY BRINGS FELICITY

The more we detach ourselves, the less susceptible we are to suffering. The more we attach ourselves to possessions and people, the more woes burden our lives.

I am lucky. I only desire the basics which my one-bedroom apartment at the Fort Brown with an incredible view provides. I have never been materialistic. I have never felt the need to keep up with the Joneses. It is the one lesson that has remained with me from my hippie days.
Peace, bro...
I don't have a car. I never have to worry about cutting the lawn or fixing an engine. I have a decent selection of clothes and shoes. I can give the impression attired that I live in a mansion in Rancho Viejo. Since everything is an illusion for starters, why fight the current?
I love Zen Buddhist philosophy, but I could never be a monk. My attachments to drink, drugs, dames and dining doom me. All four have led to unpleasant outcomes with family and friends.
While I'm not instinctively detached from family and friends, personal problems sometimes leave you no other choice but to cut ties. Detachment is your only alternative or you go crazy.
Being alone has its benefits and drawbacks. There is a Buddhist saying that conquering oneself is more difficult than conquering a thousand enemy soldiers. We are responsible for our many failures as greed and lust get the better of us.
Regardless, I've learned to live alone. I miss the warmth of a good woman. I miss my boys who are now adults and are seeking their own way in life. But I don't miss the tension. I have tranquility.
I pop two milligrams of Xanax and I can feel the serenity slowly rising from my feet much like Socrates describing the hemlock that was slowly poisoning him before it my meds engulf my entire body.
It's not my intention to commit suicide like the great philosopher. The state forced him to kill himself for allegedly corrupting young minds. Should the electorate demand that Trump commit suicide for corrupting minds in general? As my body embraces an ineffable relaxation, I listen to Mozart and read Whitman.
I cherish these short-lived moments of calm before the demons return. They are waiting patiently on the periphery and ambush me when I least expect them. But I have grown accustomed to the rollercoaster ride. I feel the edge enhances my writing.
Estanislao Contreras, the controversial poet of Chicano Fuck Songs and a wine-drinking buddy, swung by my place. We had breakfast and then ran a few errands with stops at Wal-Mart and HEB.
I find myself back in my cell in front of my laptop. I may write another article later in the day and I may not. My mind is still percolating, but I haven't settled on any subject. There are vague outlines of anecdotes in my brain, but nothing has materialized. I would like to pen a poem.
I wish it would rain. I find gray, wet days inspirational. Ciao.

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