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The centipede replied: I do not manage them.

One who forces their way to power, will touch no food. One who moves with the stream, the rarest of fruits. They made no history, rulers, with simple branches, trembling in heavy snows, far from honor and wealth, they cling to a root that does not grow.

What am I under Heaven, shall I act as if I were something. All is movement. Three thousand years, midnights precious shrine. To leave a sacred shell, shrouded in incense, or to go on dragging the tail in the mud.

To distinguish the tip of a hair, the horse travels hundreds of miles, relative is our view. Of fullness and emptiness, how can one compare. One does not rejoice in completion nor lament in beginning. The revolution is not over, birth and death are even, the terms are not final.

-Josh Fleming; Remixing Thomas Mertons translations of Chuang Tzu

Image by: Oystein Sture Aspelund

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