He missed his flight – forgot a passport – and it triggered off, they say, a tidal wave of emotion. That this man running from green England may have reached his last stand. His – how would you put it – loved ones, that reward him when he meets, or hears from are there. Would he tire so much if he were to see them day to day, or be able to fill their expectations, or moreover his own in their company. Of course not. His delight is to defy.
That word ‘missing’. You missed something. You were going to hit it but you missed. You should be hitting but you are missed. You are mist. Arjuna is mist and swirling round the bays of his loved ones windows, trying to look inside. He’s got prospects. He’s got space. He’s got more than he could care for but can’t care enough if it would leave.
He could take it easy back home. Not have to force friendships or have to judge so keenly whether to allow others into his life, he reflects. This wears him down.
The Great Stillness has no border but knows it must be followed beyond the limit. It may be enough to go home, put feet up and rest in comfort of friends and people that respect me without condition but – the question remains – where would that get me?
He’s fine. Just reflecting. A moment of pain. Now still again.