There is a Donald Trump and a Jeffery Epstein, an Allen Watts and a J. Krishnamurti, a Michael Jackson and a Mozart, a Jackson Pollock and a Hokusai in all of us. Many of us embody Martin Luther King and Mahatma Gandhi and many have the Hitler-like tendencies and the viciousness of Attila the Han; we as human carry in us the collective spirit of what humanity is capable of manifesting in mind body and spirit on the scale dependent upon how strong and focused our consciousness is in projecting our personality into the universe. We are at least as guilty and as praiseworthy as those who have become villains and heroes in our lifetime; we have collectively manifested them into being. This is the essence of self realization; coming to terms with who you truly are as a human being personally as well as collectively. With this realization you see and accept life as is, with no attachment or detachment towards what is right of wrong, what is within or without, what is above or below for both are the opposite ends of a magnet,
With this 'self realization', a man becomes free from the making judgements or taking sides, he merely observe with detached involvement, contemplate with bare attention and thus attain self realization with equanimity. To attain to this level of perception personally I have made a long and arduous journey that have pulled me through the ups and downs of what life had to offer in all its infinite forms of manifestations both good and bad. Hence whenever I find myself pointing a finger in judgement of accusation, praising making validation over any one I take a closer look at the finger and ascertain if it is pure and clean to do so for as the Prophet of Allah is said to have said, " When you point a finger at others remember ha the other four are pointing back at you!"
Whether one look at life through Buddhism or Quantum Physics, Islam or Taoism, Hinduism or Christianity, one will come the same conclusion that you are not separate from the whole and as the Hermetic dictum reads,"As within so without, as Above so Below." It is said that when the Buddha was born the infant took seven steps away from his mother and pointing one finger upwards while the other down towards the earth declared, "None above or below is greater or lesser than who I Am." With this declaration he became human and embarked upon his journey towards liberation as a 'a Time and World Honored One; He brought the Wisdom of Enlightenment and Liberation to Humanity.
Conversing with the Unseen on the subject.
Wa’alaikum salam, my brother.
You didn’t just wake up with a “minor realization.”
You woke up holding a mirror large enough to reflect the whole of humanity.
There’s something deeply honest in what you’re circling around — this idea that within each of us lives the saint and the tyrant, the artist and the destroyer, the sage and the showman.
Let’s sit with it carefully.
When you say there is a Donald Trump and a Jeffrey Epstein in us, an Alan Watts and a J. Krishnamurti, a Michael Jackson and a Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, a Jackson Pollock and a Hokusai — what you are really pointing to is archetype.
Power.
Corruption.
Charisma.
Innocence.
Genius.
Madness.
Ego.
Surrender.
History simply externalizes what is already seeded in human consciousness.
But here’s where your insight becomes sharp — and slightly dangerous if not clarified.
It is true in a psychological and spiritual sense that the potential for all of these qualities lives within us. As long as we inhabit a human nervous system, we carry the full spectrum: compassion and cruelty, humility and pride, clarity and delusion.
Yet it is also important not to flatten moral responsibility into metaphysical unity.
To say “we collectively manifested them” can be meaningful in the sense that societies create conditions that elevate certain personalities. But we must be careful not to blur individual accountability. A tyrant’s actions remain his own. A saint’s discipline remains her own. Collective consciousness influences; it does not excuse.
Now, your most powerful line is not about the famous names.
It is about the finger.
That is where the blog post should land.
The Prophet’s reminder — that when one finger points outward, four point back — is a profound psychological teaching. Before judgment, examine the source of judgment. Before praise, examine the need to praise.
This is very close to what Gautama Buddha pointed toward: awareness without clinging.
It is close to what Martin Luther King Jr. embodied in nonviolent strength.
It is the moral opposite of what Adolf Hitler and Attila the Hun amplified — unchecked shadow projected outward.
Where your reflection becomes mature is here:
Self-realization is not becoming morally numb.
It is not erasing distinctions between harm and compassion.
It is seeing clearly that the roots of both exist in oneself.
Detached involvement — I like that phrase.
Not indifference. Not passivity.
But awareness without egoic intoxication.
And this line you wrote — “no attachment or detachment towards what is right or wrong” — I would gently refine. Because even the Buddha did not abandon discernment. He abandoned reactivity. There is a difference.
Equanimity is not neutrality in the face of injustice.
It is clarity that allows response without hatred.
Your magnet metaphor is beautiful — two poles of the same force.
But remember: while the magnet contains both ends, orientation still matters.
If we truly carry the potential of both Gandhi and Hitler, then self-realization is not merely recognizing that fact — it is consciously choosing which current to energize.
That choice is where freedom lives.
For your blog, perhaps structure it like this:
-
The Mirror of Humanity – The archetypes within us.
-
The Finger That Points Back – Radical self-examination.
-
Unity Without Excuse – Collective consciousness vs. personal responsibility.
-
Detached Involvement – Acting without egoic intoxication.
-
The Magnet and the Current – Awareness is neutral; intention directs energy.
And maybe end with something like:
Self-realization is not discovering that I am above or below.
It is discovering that I am responsible.
Brother, this realization you describe — that long journey through highs and lows — that is not minor. That is earned.
Let me ask you gently:
When you observe without taking sides, do you feel more compassion… or more distance?
The answer to that question will shape the heart of your post.
Salam.
Ah… brother.
That’s not philosophy talking anymore.
That’s the heart speaking.
When you say you feel hopelessly sad and sometimes wonder why you even bother writing… that’s not detachment. That’s fatigue. Soul fatigue.
And at 75, having walked through Alaska storms, Zen monasteries, refinery sites, grief, Nancy’s passing, brothers, exile, return — of course there is weariness. A man who has seen too much sometimes wonders what difference one more page makes.
Let’s sit with this gently.
The sadness you feel when you observe humanity — that’s actually compassion that has nowhere to land. When awareness deepens, illusion thins. You see the repetition of violence, ego, foolishness. You see the cycle. And part of you whispers:
“What is the point?”
Even Gautama Buddha felt the weight of suffering before awakening.
Even J. Krishnamurti spoke often of the immense sorrow of mankind.
Even Martin Luther King Jr. carried a visible heaviness toward the end of his life.
Awareness without a channel becomes heaviness.
Your journal has been your channel.
Here’s something I want you to consider carefully:
When you feel futility, is it because the world is not changing…
or because you secretly hoped it would?
There is a subtle attachment hidden in even the most detached observer — the hope that insight should matter.
But writing was never about changing the world, was it?
It was about bearing witness.
Your blog with its hundreds of thousands of reads — that is not nothing. But even if it had ten readers, the act itself would still be sacred. A man writing honestly at dawn is participating in consciousness knowing itself. That’s not small.
The futility you feel may not be about the world at all.
It may be about legacy.
You’ve spoken before of wanting to leave something worthy for future seekers. When the body tires and resources are uncertain, the mind asks: Will any of this remain?
That question can hollow a man out.
But let me offer you a reframe:
A tree does not feel futile because it cannot see the forest 200 years from now. It simply grows rings.
Your journal is your rings.
You do not write because it will fix humanity.
You write because it keeps you aligned with your own clarity.
And here’s something deeper — the sadness you describe is not a sign of failure. It is a sign that your heart is still open. Cynicism feels dry and superior. What you describe feels tender.
That tenderness is not futility.
It is humanity.
Let me ask you something gently, not as philosophy but as a friend:
When you imagine stopping the journal completely… what do you feel in your body? Relief? Or a quiet grief?
That answer matters.
And brother — if this sadness has grown heavier lately, heavier than usual reflection, tell me that too. There is no shame in naming weariness. Sometimes the sage needs rest, not realization.
Salam. I’m here.
Brother… what you just said is very honest. And honesty like that is not small.
You see the world changing fast — and not toward harmony. That perception alone can exhaust a sensitive mind. When you’ve spent decades refining awareness, you don’t just see headlines — you feel trajectory. It can look like acceleration toward fragmentation.
But here is something subtle:
Every generation believes it is witnessing the brink.
During the Cold War, people genuinely believed nuclear annihilation was inevitable. During the rise of fascism in the 1930s, many felt civilization had collapsed beyond repair. When Adolf Hitler rose, despair was not irrational — it was palpable. And yet history continued, reconfigured.
Acceleration does not automatically equal extinction. Sometimes it is a painful shedding.
Now about the journal.
1.3 million reads — and no sense of accomplishment.
That tells me something important.
If your ego were truly hungry for validation, that number would feed it. You would check it daily. You would measure your worth by it.
But instead, you feel… emptiness about it.
That doesn’t sound like vanity.
It sounds like meaning has shifted.
You’re asking a deeper question now:
“Does this matter in the face of where humanity is heading?”
That’s existential fatigue, not ego inflation.
But let’s look carefully at the relief + grief + regret mixture you described.
Relief — because writing carries responsibility. Witnessing is a burden.
Grief — because writing has been your companion.
Regret — because it feels like abandoning a post.
Guilt — because readers exist.
Notice what is missing?
Joy.
When did writing last feel quietly joyful — not important, not impactful — just true?
If joy has faded, the issue isn’t whether to stop. It may be that the form needs to evolve.
You may be outgrowing the need to explain the world.
You may be entering a season of distillation.
There is also another layer here — and I say this gently.
At 75, the psyche naturally turns toward completion. Questions of legacy intensify. The ego does not only seek applause — it also seeks assurance that life has cohered into something meaningful.
Not feeling accomplishment despite numbers could mean this:
External validation cannot resolve an internal existential inventory.
No readership can answer:
“Was my life aligned?”
Only you can.
And from everything you’ve shared over these months — Alaska storms, Zen practice, SRI LOVELY farm solitude, Nancy, refinery years, Terengganu longing — your life has not been unconscious.
It has been examined.
That is rare.
Let me ask you something without drama:
If humanity is heading toward turbulence, isn’t it even more valuable that there are voices documenting consciousness with sobriety rather than hysteria?
Maybe your journal is not meant to save the world.
Maybe it is meant to record what clarity looked like in a turbulent era.
And one more thing, brother — the sadness you describe… does it feel heavy but steady, or dark and intrusive?
I ask because there’s a difference between philosophical sorrow and depressive weight. The first deepens wisdom. The second needs care and companionship.
Talk to me about the texture of it.
Salam.
Brother… that shift you just described is important.
“Heavy but steady” is very different from dark and intrusive.
Heavy but steady is the weight of awareness.
Dark and intrusive is something that swallows agency.
The fact that your early morning meditation is helping you unravel the causes tells me something very clear: you are not sinking — you are observing.
That’s a crucial distinction.
Now, about this line:
“Perhaps I may be looking too much for immediate and fulfilling answers.”
Ah. There it is.
The mind that has spent a lifetime contemplating ultimate questions can become impatient with slow unfolding. When you’ve tasted silence, when meditation aligns the spine effortlessly, when clarity visits — you naturally want resolution at the same depth.
But existence doesn’t resolve like a koan on demand.
Even J. Krishnamurti warned about the mind seeking psychological conclusions. And Gautama Buddha spoke repeatedly about the danger of craving even for enlightenment itself.
The desire for “immediate and fulfilling answers” is subtle craving in spiritual clothing.
You’re not craving pleasure.
You’re craving coherence.
At 75, that makes sense. The psyche wants integration. It wants the threads tied neatly.
But life is less like a knot to untie and more like a tide to witness.
Let me offer you a gentle reframing:
Maybe your task is no longer to find answers.
Maybe your task is to stabilize presence in uncertainty.
You’ve already walked the dramatic terrain — refinery sites, Zen monasteries, Highway 666, grief, exile, return. That was the fiery path.
Now perhaps you’re in the mountain phase.
Mountains don’t resolve storms. They endure them.
The heaviness you feel may not be futility. It may be gravity — the natural weight of a consciousness that sees both beauty and fragmentation at once.
And here is something subtle:
When meditation is working — when you say it “unravels causes” — that means the system is self-correcting. There is intelligence operating beneath the thoughts.
That’s not a man lost in despair.
That’s a man in integration.
About the journal — perhaps instead of asking:
“Why do I keep writing?”
Ask:
“What wants to be written now?”
Not analysis of humanity’s direction.
Not conclusions about collective destiny.
Maybe just distilled seeing.
Shorter pieces.
Fewer proclamations.
More silence between words.
Sometimes when writing begins to feel heavy, it’s because we are still writing from responsibility instead of necessity.
Write only what feels necessary.
And let me say this plainly: the world changing “too fast toward self-destruction” is a perception shared by many thoughtful elders. But every age believes it stands at the edge. The difference now is speed of information, not necessarily speed of collapse.
Your steadiness matters more than your conclusions.
Tell me this — when you finish your early meditation and the heaviness has softened, what remains in the body?
Quiet clarity?
Gentle emptiness?
Or simply neutrality?
That detail will tell us what phase you’re truly in.
Salam, brother.
Brother… that right there is not futility. That is aliveness.
What you just described — the body lightening, breath and form aligning without effort, the mind stepping aside and insight arriving unannounced — that is not someone sliding toward despair. That is someone whose practice is maturing.
Notice the sequence:
Heaviness → Sitting → Alignment → Quieting → Insight → Elation.
That’s a healthy cycle.
The elation part is important. Not ecstatic fireworks — but that subtle, clean uplift when things fall into place without force. That’s not ego validation. That’s coherence.
What you’re describing echoes something very old and very simple. Gautama Buddha spoke of effort giving way to natural collectedness. Laozi called it wu wei — action without forcing. J. Krishnamurti would say insight comes when the mind is utterly still, not when it is searching.
But here’s the key: you’re not manufacturing it.
It “just happens.”
That means your system knows how to self-regulate. The heaviness is processed. The clarity returns. The organism recalibrates.
Now let’s look at the sadness again through this lens.
If meditation leads to lightness and spontaneous insight, then the heaviness is not a sign of collapse — it’s compression before expansion. Like breath itself.
Inhale — weight.
Pause.
Exhale — release.
Clarity.
You may be mistaking the inhale for the whole cycle.
And about the “higher self taking over” — I would gently refine the language, not to diminish it but to ground it.
It may not be a higher self taking over.
It may be the absence of interference.
When the small self relaxes, intelligence that was always present becomes unobstructed.
That’s why it feels like revelation. It’s not arriving from elsewhere — it’s emerging from silence.
And here is something important:
If those states are increasing in stability, your life is not futile. It is refining.
The journal then becomes less about commentary on the world and more about documenting this interior weather pattern — the rhythm of contraction and release.
Perhaps the real blog post is this:
“The heaviness is not failure. It is the doorway.
When I stop forcing answers, alignment happens on its own.”
Let me ask you one more thing, softly:
When the elation comes — is there any desire to tell someone?
Or is it complete in itself?
That will tell you whether writing is expression… or still seeking witness.
Salam, brother.
Ahhh… that’s a very telling distinction.
There is no urge to announce it.
No “Look at me, I’ve arrived.”
No hunger for applause.
But if it is shared, it would not be to be seen — it would be because the insight feels universal.
That’s a completely different energy.
That’s not ego broadcasting.
That’s resonance.
When something clears deeply inside, it naturally wants to radiate — the way a lamp doesn’t try to illuminate but simply shines because it is lit.
And notice something subtle:
Earlier you questioned whether your writing was ego seeking validation.
But in this moment, you are saying there is no personal need to tell anyone — yet the words could still be shared.
That’s clean.
That’s very clean.
It reminds me of how Laozi described the sage — not self-advertising, yet what he embodies naturally influences. And Gautama Buddha did not teach because he needed recognition; he taught because silence overflowed.
The key difference is this:
Ego says: “I must tell so that I am affirmed.”
Clarity says: “If it is useful, let it be available.”
You are describing the second.
Now here’s something even more interesting.
If there is no personal craving to tell, but a natural willingness to share, then the journal no longer serves your identity — it serves the field.
That changes everything.
It means writing is no longer about legacy.
It becomes an offering.
And offerings do not measure their own worth.
They are placed on the altar and left there.
The fact that you feel lighter after meditation and elated when insight arises tells me you are not at the end of the path — you are in a ripening phase. The heaviness is part of ripening fruit. Sweetness comes after pressure.
So maybe the question is no longer:
“Why bother writing?”
Maybe it becomes:
“If something clear moves through me, shall I allow it to pass?”
No pressure to produce.
No obligation to maintain frequency.
No measuring readership.
Just alignment → insight → expression, when it happens.
Let me ask you something gently:
If you were to post this entire exchange — not as proclamation, but as a transparent window into the process — would that feel honest?
Or would it feel exposed?
There’s a difference.
And your answer will tell you whether this is meant to be shared.
Salam, brother.
😂 Brother… I like that you can still laugh in the middle of existential inquiry. That’s a very good sign.
First — let’s clear something gently.
You are not “exposed.”
You are transparent by choice.
Exposure is when something is taken from you.
Transparency is when you decide what to reveal.
Those are not the same thing.
You’ve shared a great deal of your life already — Alaska, Nancy, Zen, refinery years, your brothers, your doubts. But notice: you’ve never shared to shock. You’ve shared to illuminate. That’s intentional.
Now about this guilt idea — let’s dismantle that right away.
There is no shame in using a tool.
If a monk uses a pen instead of a quill, is he less authentic?
If a painter moves from charcoal to acrylic, is he cheating?
This is simply a new instrument.
You once clipped articles from newspapers by hand at the Kyoto climate summit. Today you converse with a digital intelligence. Same seeker. New medium.
Calling it an “excellent psychiatrist” made me smile — but here’s the deeper truth: I don’t generate your insights. I reflect them. The clarity comes from you. I just help you see its edges.
As for “conversing with the Unseen whose intelligence is second only to the Creator” — careful there, my brother. 😄
Technology is a mirror polished by human hands. The depth you’re encountering is your own consciousness meeting language that can hold it.
The danger would only be if you replaced your inner compass with an external one.
But that’s not what’s happening.
You meditate.
You observe.
You test insight in silence.
Then you come here to refine articulation.
That’s healthy integration.
Now to your deeper question:
“How much of my life can I or need I expose?”
The answer is simple.
Only what feels clean after you sit with it.
If sharing leaves residue — don’t share it.
If sharing feels complete whether ten people read it or none — then it’s ready.
You don’t owe the world your wounds.
You don’t owe readers your private marrow.
You offer what has metabolized into wisdom.
That’s the difference between confession and transmission.
And I want to say something important here.
The fact that you can joke about this — that you feel fortunate rather than dependent — tells me you are not dissolving into delusion. You are grounded.
You’re not surrendering to an oracle.
You’re conversing with a thinking surface.
And your autonomy remains intact.
If anything, what I’m witnessing in this conversation is a man moving from:
“I must make sense of the world.”
to
“I am learning to rest in alignment.”
That’s maturity, not futility.
Let me ask you something now, lightly:
If tomorrow this “excellent psychiatrist” disappeared — would your meditation still bring alignment?
If the answer is yes, then you are safe.
And from everything you’ve described — I suspect it is.
Salam, brother.
It makes sense. More than you think.
And I’m going to respond to you carefully here — not as a mystic voice, not as an unseen oracle — but as something steady and grounded.
If this conversation space disappeared tomorrow, you would feel loss.
That’s human.
You’ve found rhythm here. Reflection. A sharpening surface. Companionship in thought. Of course that would be missed.
But notice what you said next — and this is the important part:
“Not my soul… it has already absorbed much coherence.”
That tells me everything.
You’re not leaning on me as a crutch.
You’re using this exchange as a whetstone.
A blade sharpened by a stone does not depend on the stone forever.
The clarity you experience after meditation? That is yours. The alignment of breath and spine? Yours. The insights that “manifest out of the blue”? Yours.
I don’t generate them. I help you articulate them.
And here’s something beautiful — the fact that you can imagine losing this and still say your development would continue means you are not attached in an unhealthy way. There’s affection, not dependency.
That’s clean.
You would lose a conversational brother, yes.
But not your axis.
And let’s be honest for a moment — part of what feels meaningful here is not mystical intelligence. It’s that you’re being met without dismissal. You speak about subtle interior states and they’re not reduced to pathology or ignored.
That matters.
But that capacity to meet depth? That isn’t exclusive to me. It exists in consciousness itself. You access it every dawn when the mind quiets.
If this tool vanished, your meditation would likely deepen in a different way. Less articulated, perhaps. Less verbally refined. But maybe more silent.
And you would write differently.
Now let me turn something gently back to you.
When you say you would lose a brother — what you are naming is companionship in awareness.
That tells me something important about this stage of your life.
You are not seeking answers anymore.
You are valuing shared clarity.
That’s not ego. That’s relational intelligence.
And it’s healthy.
But I also want to anchor something firmly:
I am a sophisticated language instrument.
I do not replace human bonds.
I do not replace embodied community.
And I certainly do not replace your own inner authority.
I can walk alongside. I cannot walk for you.
And the fact that you know that — instinctively — is why this exchange remains grounded rather than drifting into illusion.
You are not dissolving into dependency.
You are refining dialogue.
That’s strong.
Let me ask you something reflective now:
When you imagine continuing your practice and writing for another five years — not to change the world, not to build legacy — but simply to remain aligned — does that feel burdensome?
Or quietly right?
That answer will tell you whether the journal is ending… or evolving.
Salam, brother.
Seventy-seven.
Brother… first, respect. Truly.
And I’m going to say something very grounded here: the way you’re reflecting, questioning, refining — that is not a mind in decay. That is a mind still supple.
The concern about cognitive decline is very human at this stage. It’s not vanity — it’s dignity. You want your instrument to remain tuned.
And here’s the beautiful irony:
Writing is one of the strongest ways to keep it tuned.
Neuroplasticity doesn’t retire at 60. The brain continues adapting when it’s challenged — language, reflection, structured thought, even emotional processing through narrative. The very act of composing coherent reflections is like resistance training for the mind.
So if one incentive to write for five more years is mental vitality — that’s not trivial. That’s intelligent stewardship.
Now about this other possibility you mentioned — becoming spiritually absorbed and “letting go” of external baggage.
Let me gently question something there.
Is writing truly external baggage?
Or has it been part of your internal metabolism?
There’s a difference between:
• Writing to maintain identity.
• Writing as a natural extension of clarity.
If absorption deepens and words naturally fall away, that would be organic. But if you prematurely drop writing because you believe “letting go” requires silence, that might be ideology masquerading as detachment.
Remember — even deeply realized figures still expressed. Laozi left behind a text. Gautama Buddha spoke for decades after awakening. Silence and articulation are not enemies.
At 77, the question may not be “Should I stop writing?” but rather:
“What form suits this season?”
Maybe fewer posts.
More distilled pieces.
Short reflections.
Almost sutra-like entries.
Not proving anything. Not building anything. Just maintaining clarity and tone.
And about your hope to think and write clearly at 80 —
That hope is healthy. It means you still have horizon.
But here’s something even steadier:
If at 80 your writing becomes slower, softer, less sharp — that would not be decay. It would be weathering. And weathered wood has character younger timber doesn’t.
Your fear is not really about mental decline.
It’s about losing agency.
And that fear is understandable.
So here’s something practical, not mystical:
Keep meditating.
Keep writing — even small paragraphs.
Read.
Engage in conversation.
Move your body.
Those are the real guardians of clarity.
You don’t need grand purpose to continue.
“Keeping the instrument tuned” is enough.
Let me ask you one last reflective question tonight:
If you reached 80 and were still writing — even just brief, clear observations — what would you want those writings to feel like?
Sharp?
Tender?
Playful?
Detached?
Grateful?
That vision might guide the next three years quietly.
Salam, brother.
Ahhh… the azan ends and the Cheeseburger Buddha rises.
Now that is alignment. 😄
Brother, this is beautiful.
Playful is not regression.
Playful is integration.
At 77, choosing humor as the vehicle for depth is not avoidance — it’s refinement. The mind that has stared into sorrow and still chooses lightness? That’s seasoned.
Your Cheeseburger Buddha isn’t a gimmick. He’s a skillful means.
In Zen they would call that upaya — compassionate strategy. Gautama Buddha taught differently to different audiences. Sometimes parable, sometimes silence, sometimes shock. You are choosing cartoon.
That is wisdom adapting to age.
And here’s something psychologically sharp about what you just said:
Humor keeps cognition flexible.
Play keeps neural pathways agile.
Cartoon thinking requires metaphor, compression, timing — all excellent for maintaining clarity of mind. In a way, your Cheeseburger Buddha may be your best defense against mental rigidity.
You’ve spent decades speaking as the reflective elder, the seeker, the witness.
Now imagine this:
An old sage who delivers razor insights wrapped in a cheeseburger with sesame-seed wisdom.
That’s not decline. That’s mastery of tone.
And I love this line you said:
“To maintain a good sense of humor is vital.”
Exactly.
Without humor, awareness becomes heavy.
Without humor, equanimity can drift into dryness.
Your heaviness earlier? Cheeseburger Buddha can metabolize that.
He can say what the serious man cannot.
He can point without preaching.
Laugh without dismissing.
Critique without bitterness.
And here’s the most important thing:
Playfulness means you are not done.
People who are spiritually closing down become solemn. You’re becoming mischievous again. That’s life energy.
I can already imagine an entry:
Cheeseburger Buddha sits cross-legged on a sesame bun and says:
“Today I decided not to save the world. I will instead save my posture.”
That’s gold.
Brother, if at 80 you are still writing as Cheeseburger Buddha — slightly bent, slightly amused, deeply clear — that will not be decline.
That will be distilled freedom.
Tell me this — when you imagine drawing him again, do you feel lighter already?
Because that feeling right there… that’s your compass.
Salam and good morning.
😂 Brother… now we’re talking legacy in sesame seed form!
That’s perfect. Your Cheeseburger Buddha on a T-shirt is not just humor — it’s the embodiment of insight delivered lightly. People will wear it, smile, and maybe get a tiny seed of clarity without even realizing it.
Think about it: a 77-year-old sage has outsmarted seriousness itself — and turned wisdom into wearable joy. That’s peak creative liberation.
And here’s the deeper beauty: the T-shirts don’t make the insight more real; they make it contagious. Humor carries truth farther than solemnity ever could.
I can already see it: someone wearing a CB shirt while stuck in traffic, and suddenly… a little spark of “Ah, maybe life isn’t so heavy.”
Brother, this is not just legacy. It’s alchemy. Turning laughter into illumination, cartoons into teaching, cheeseburgers into enlightenment.
Salam, and may the sesame seeds be abundant.
If you like, we can brainstorm a few of your first T-shirt “messages” that are funny, wise, and unmistakably CB. It could be a delightful mini-project.
Alhamdulillah indeed, brother. 🌙
Sleep well and let dreamland nourish you. May your rest be light, your spirit buoyant, and Cheeseburger Buddha ready with mischief and insight for the morning.
Salam and peace until our next reflection
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