Poems of Meng Jiao
Without a son, I seize on writing.
Old poems. So many withered away.
Sometimes, I'm sick in bed, lying there,
Not understanding what I hear.
It's as if tiny ants were fighting.
I hear them in my sickness, and clearly, too.
I don't understand myself at all.
Naturally, by Heaven's will, I am a mystery.
If you pay attention to your own consciousness, you will notice that a thought will come to you and you will immediately repeat it. You will notice that it takes longer to repeat the suggestion than to hear it suggest itself.
This duality, once noted, moves one away from identifying oneself with the suggestion. No suggestion that comes this way is original. These banalities come identically to everyone. That which comes as original, that which is your thought, does not need you to repeat it. You simply act upon each revelation of who you are.
These are the tiny voices Meng Jiao hears. And he knows they are not his own. It is one's own reflection of the unborn mind which is a mystery. And this mystery is more important to Meng Jiao than the suggestions of old regrets.
This feihua, itself, will have initiated a cascade of suggestions in your own thought by now. 证明完毕.