Nirvana's Trap

samsara, on the rocks the wheel doesn't ask permission. it just turns, and you're on it, born again into the same hungers wearing a different face. the gods look down with their many eyes, each one half-lidded with pity, hands frozen in gestures that might mean come here or might mean you're not ready, and nobody's translating. they know more than you. that's the whole racket. they sit up there in dimensions folded like napkins at a table you'll never get a reservation for, and they let you wonder. the wondering is the hook. what's past the edge of this reality? you ask the question at 3 a.m. and the ceiling says nothing, the way ceilings do, the way gods do, the way the universe has been saying nothing beautifully for thirteen billion years. so you go back in the blender. love, then pain, then the long stretch of suffering you swear is teaching you something, then the little sip of redemption that keeps you ordering another round. they call it life. the menu never changes. and maybe nirvana isn't a door. maybe it's the moment you stop gripping the blender's rim, stop asking the many-eyed bartender what's in the drink, and just let the wheel turn without you holding on. the illusion was never the world. it was the hand that thought it had to hold it.