If you take Empty out of Empty, emptiness remains

Right so I’ve hit it again. Another moment when you’re feeling so self-piteous, so wronged and angered. And too impotent to do anything that the result is a state of depression. Not knowing what to do with anger is so extremely toxic. And this year, 32, has been multiple moments of that.
32 = 8x4 as Sandeep puts it. The year, which marks the point when age overtakes the number of teeth you’ll ever have, naturally. When you pass the fifth power of 2. And reach the point when Jesus, Alexander and Shanracharya, all copped it. Not that we have anything in common. I’ll probably outlive everyone I know and not contribute anything to increase the World’s wisdom or my territory.
Long living genes and misery. Not death’s favorites.

But today is a different kind of empty. When the vessel has been drained but the liquid has left some of its essence. Like the wine glass holding on to the redness of the wine that has been drunk.
A residual anger. Fleeting, evaporating, but present, if just for the moment. I should throw a tantrum may be. I should take it out perhaps but conditioning, a lack of balls and a presence of manners and consciousness of other people all mixed up intertwined make it so difficult to either release or let go.

When I look at myself at these moments I get overwhelmed by the weakness I see. It’s like staring into an exposed wound, seeing muscle and tissue, blood and fibre. Fragile, easily spent. It’s god awful. Being weak and at the same time being conscious. Your defense mechanism broken or not working at all. I’m dying to express something, to speak on behalf of the wine that’s no more, the rage that was diluted, the self righteous anger forced to look back at itself.
And all I can do is write this blog entry. Eureka, I’ve discovered truly empty expression.