Failure

He wakes up with the sun. He does his morning exercises and wipes the sweat off his brow with a clean towel. He showers, and washes his face. The water is lukewarm, but manages to steam the mirror. He dries off and walks past it without looking. He cleans the floors of his temple, first sweeping, and then wiping the wood down with a towel. He prepares his rice porridge, and sits down to eat. Finishing that, he returns to the temple, unrolls a bamboo mat, and begins his meditation.

Life is suffering
Suffering is caused by desire

He stares at the wall, at the white rectangle where the television used to hang. He does not try to remember the black square, or the bright, flashing images it used to display. He is sitting in between scratches on the floor, where he tried to move a couch too heavy for him into position. He does not think about the way the leather stuck to his skin on a hot day, or the weight of the thing, or the way the corners dug into his fingers as he struggled to get it into place.

Life is suffering
Suffering is caused by desire
There is a cessation to desire
This cessation can be reached by the Eight-Fold Path

There is no dust on the white walls of his temple, only white spots where items used to hang. He notices a stray hair lying in front of him; a tiny coarse reminder that he has neglected his personal appearance. He reaches to his face but is stopped by the wild, tangled underbrush hanging from his chin. He remembers that he last shaved almost a year ago. He remembers that he has given up the use of the mirror. He remembers the thing that lies behind it.

Life is suffering
Suffering is caused by desire

It's still there when he opens up the medicine cabinet. The metal spoon is dull and tarnished, and is marred with a black cross-hatching at the bottom. The lighter is still fueled and begs to be transformed into mad, dancing flame. The baggie sits there, untouched but still promising that which he swore he had abandoned. The needle promises pain and pleasure.

Suffering is caused by desire

The powder melts into the spoon and is absorbed. The needle stings and the veins in his arm burn like whiskey on the throat. The machines are only a couple molecules thick, but they think; they know. They travel with the current of his life essence and into the capillaries of his brain. When they release their small electric charges. He is no longer in his temple, but in the memories they are designed to resurrect.

He is sitting on the couch with her, stroking her long, black hair. The television paints her in a pale, unearthly glow, and makes her seem as something entirely supernatural. He pulls her close against him and kisses the nape of her neck. She leans into it and quietly moans. They enter the bedroom. She pushes him onto the mattress and slowly pulls his shirt over his head. She grabs the back of his neck and pulls him into a kiss. Her tongue slides into his mouth, and her grip is inescapable.

An hour later she is lying in his arms. Her sweat smells sweet and inviting. She says she wants to stay like this forever. He says he never wants to let her go.

Bright light envelops his world. He wakes up on the floor. The couch is gone. The television is gone. The bed is gone. Only shapes remain; ghosts of a better time. She is gone, and has left nothing. He weeps, and his tears fall hard on the freshly cleaned floor, and he screams out the Four Noble Truths.

Life is Suffering
Life is Suffering
Life is Suffering
Life is Suffering