4 o`clock today, in Buzau. I get on a bus which takes me to the center of the city. I expect it to be

crowded as usual. But, to my surprise, it’s quite empty and silent when I get in.

Unusual, I tell myself while taking a seat.

I mind my own business and start thinking about my stuff.

Sitting on a single person chair to my right, there is a man looking like a beggar who is constantly

talking. About this, about that. About life and his stories. He looks crazy, but I have no idea if he’s

really crazy or drunk. Or both. Or maybe neither.

He talks loudly and with excitement about his pains. He doesn’t care that nobody is listening to

him. Something draws my attention. I don’t know what and I don’t know why.

I focus my attention on my body, on my feelings. I realize I feel strained. I leave my thoughts aside

and I start listening carefully.

I can hear the stillness in the bus, the stillness in which only his voice can be heard. I can almost

hear the voices of others, although they are not saying a word. You could feel disapproval and

judgement floating in the air. I don`t judge at all, I just observe their disapproving looks and closed

up attitudes, masked by the act of looking out the dirty windows. I can see the frustration, the

defiance and the arrogance of that “Oh Lord, this world is full of crazy people. You can’t even

travel peacefully on a bus. It would have been so much better if I had a car and I wouldn’t have to

bear with these drunken lunatics! Why does the driver even let them get in? What a moron!” I tell

myself that maybe this is all in my head, maybe it is just my own interpretation and judgement.

Maybe I got crazy for good, as idealist and sensible as I am.

I keep my focus on my body. I am still not interpreting, but I can almost hear their thoughts, for

God’s sake! They are clashing in my brain while I perceive that no one, absolutely no one dares to

look this outcast, who has the courage to voice his real thoughts with exuberant honesty, in the eye.

I keep my attention inside my body while I look at him. I have to admit it is not easy, something

undefinable is moving me. Yes, I`ve been looking at him ever since I took my seat. And I realize

that I was, in fact, looking at myself.

My eyes try bursting into tears but I hold them in. “It’s not okay to cry like a stupid baby”, a voice

thunders inside my head. “You are in a public bus, everyone can see you, what the hell, can’t you

control yourself? Have you gone completely crazy? Snap out of it!”

I can hear the voice, but I am not listening to it anymore. I tell it to shut up and paradoxically, it

actually understands. I go on looking at the man and listening about how he had worked his entire

life and about all the great things he did. A wave of compassion floods me and I forget about

myself, about him. About the bus and the narrow-minded people in it. I forget about the ignorance

in myself. I forget how much I have forgotten of myself and, for a few moments, I become insane.

Insanely free!

And fear steps in, as I realize that there is no difference between me and him. That the stories he is

shouting over and over again are similar to the ones inside my head, with the difference that I don`t

always air them. I don’t always have the courage to do it. That his voiced story is the same as my

untold ones.

In my mind, I thank the “crazy” stranger for being a mirror to my own madness. To my own chaos,

my own stories, my own scenes. To that disk that is spinning over and over again, compulsively,

without an end.

Compulsive thinking is no different than madness… therefore, what is the difference between him

and me? “Consciousness” – my Inner Master firmly, yet calmly answers. Consciousness makes the

only difference, nothing more.

I come back to reality. Like a charm, I remind myself, for the thousandth time, that I understood the

essence of life. I thank my Inner Master and decide (once again) to make a deal with myself not to

forget again.

I’m startled out of the gear-systems of awareness, which was on the verge of turning into

interpretations and philosophical predictions, at the sound of a familiar voice saying :

”I worked a lot, it is not work that frightens me! It is life that frightens me!”

Yes, Flori, it is not death that frightens you, as you lied to yourself until now. You’ve used this as a

shield, while you were, in fact, afraid of life itself!

Am I the fool, who’s talking without ever stopping and forgets to listen? Am I the beggar, wasting

his time in hundreds of pursuits? Am I the ungrateful one, the victim and the aggrieved one? Am I

the arrogant, the bored one? The intellectual, the drunk, the rebel? The artist, the obscure one?

I am all this and as many more… And yet… I Am. Much more!

I bow, to the Master that I am! The one who reminds me, every time, that truth is to be found only

inside of me if, and only if, I choose to look at myself in honesty.

written by Dhyanna

translated b laylah