Title: Shards of Silence: A Dream in the Temple
This morning, I woke from a dream that lingered in the mind like incense smoke in a vast temple. The complex was enormous, filled with hundreds of devotees from all schools of Buddhism. A collective meditation was underway, yet I found myself sitting quietly in a corner, observing, waiting.
Something arose within me—a spark to share what I had learned over the years. I levitated above the crowd, floating gently over those seated on the temple grounds, explaining the heights one can reach through intense meditation. Children cheered. Adults smiled. A fleeting sense of inspiration filled the air.
And then it happened. Almost everyone rushed away to witness something in the distance, leaving the temple mostly empty, save for a few lingering souls, mostly children. I found myself crouched among toppled lamps—or were they bowls?—picking up broken pieces.
The quiet act of collecting shards in the waning light was the most conscious act of the dream. The light had dimmed, the temperature lowered, the atmosphere shifting toward evening. A sense of loss hung in the air, yet there was also clarity. Safety first, I thought, almost without thinking.
Lately, I have noticed a similar quiet despair in the waking world. Faces pass by, buried in themselves, sometimes edged with aggression, as if the act of reaching out is a danger. I find myself resisting the simple nudge of a greeting, wary of mirroring the same disconnection.
Yet when effort is met with response, there is elation; when it is ignored, my shadow murmurs its harsh verdict. In this dream, in this temple, amidst shards of glass and fading light, I sense a reflection of the world around me—a fragile balance between inspiration and desolation, a reminder that the act of caring, however small, is always sacred.
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