Before I discovered Hinduism, I thought that it was the Buddha who introduced the ideas of karma and reincarnation. However, he actually took them from Hinduism. The Buddha himself contributed his own insights – that the root of suffering lies in desires, and by escaping from desires, one becomes happy. But here’s my question: is that even possible through an act of will? I mean, if you try to force yourself to “stop wanting,” aren’t you just suppressing that energy and ending up wanting it even more?
So the ideas of reincarnation and karma are eternal… they have existed and will continue to exist for as long as humanity itself exists, while the ancient teachings are merely the written records that have survived to our time.
And Buddhists and Hindus do think about monotheism. And monotheists think about reincarnation and karma.
What I mean is that we need to separate the eternal Dhamma (reincarnation and karma), which is universal, and the ideas introduced by the Buddha, which are essentially his personal vision.
Ёлки палки смешались с грязью.. Ванна набрана третий день. , погадай на руке мне бритвой , новогодняя моя тень. По раздавленным, по ухабам, талоснежной могильной мглы, Я гроб собственный нёс устало не вытаскивая иглы. не разбрасывая надежды, не раскалывая новогодних шаров, я как порванная одежда на шалаве пляшущей для ментов. Стервенелый пёс на закваске, ебануто влюблённый поэт, коронованный в своей маске ,от больничной кареты в след . От тюремного чая Майский и от морга где тишина, новый год мне сделает райским в храме выпивший старшина. И колючей сосны под венку и со ста до нуля в метель. И больничную ту постельку и с артерии кровь потерь. Мама спрятала меня в подарке, под ночнушками в старом шкафу . Подарила меня мне в закладке и на пропись подложки в графу Поднесет к губам тихо палец и шепнет раздевайся урод, Я твой порваный школьный ранец ты мой любящий новый год.
Fir trees, sticks — all mixed with mud. The bath’s been steaming three days straight. Tell my fortune: razor, blood — My New Year’s shadow, my dark fate.
Over ruts, over crushed debris, Through thaw-snow, grave-dark, deep and vast — I dragged my own coffin tiredly, Not pulling needles out, not holding fast,
Not smashing any Christmas balls — just passed.
I’m like torn clothes on a whore Dancing for the cops with a nasty grin. A rabid dog on sourdough starter’s core, A poet sick with love within,
Still crowned inside his mask of tin, Trailing the ambulance’s track so thin —
May prison tea, The morgue where silence holds its breath. New Year will make a saint of me In the temple where a drunk sergeant deals out death. A spiny pine branch under the wreath’s debris,
And from a hundred down to zero in the blizzard’s sheath.
And that hospital bed, And the artery’s blood of loss. Mom hid me in a gift — unsaid, Under nightgowns.
She gave me to myself as a drug to toss, As a scribble in a ledger’s cross.
She’ll bring a finger to her lips, Whisper: undress, you freak. I’m your torn school backpack’s ripped-out strips, You’re my loving New Year, my peak.
