A person lived a lifetime, starting from a blank slate, accumulating thoughts, then countless tangled concerns, until they tossed and turned at night, unable to sleep.
Then they pulled thread after thread from that tangled mess, until there was no thread left in their hands, no knots left in their hearts, and finally returned to a blankness quieter and more eternal than that first handful of sand.
At ten, the heart was stirred—a single piece of candy could make one happy for half a day, a single criticism could make one cry aloud.
Back then, the heart stood open. Everything entered it, quickly came in, and quickly left.
After crying, one laughed; after laughing, one forgot. Like a leaking bucket, it could not hold onto anything.
At thirty, the mind took over—calculations began.
This could be done; that could not.
This person could be befriended; that person had to be guarded against. The mind was full of rules and restrictions, like a room crammed with furniture, where even walking made one trip.
At fifty, the heart took over—calculating had grown tiring, and one began to listen to the voice within.
There was less one wanted, and less one feared. It was like moving half the furniture out of a room, making it easier to breathe.
At a hundred, one returned to stillness—no more struggling.
No more struggling with others, nor with oneself. Like a pool of water, with the silt settled at the bottom and clarity above.
At a thousand, one returned to nothingness—even that pool was gone. Not dried up, but dissolved. Dissolved into the earth, into the wind, into some unknown place.
That numb consciousness had begun filling his thoughts like water, though he did not know when it started.
It had not flooded in all at once.