Day 17. but who's counting.

day 17. but who's counting. the pressure of being here and not anywhere else is infinite. the world conspires to drive the flow away but there are the steel rails of this ride that cannot be moved. all i can do is watch the abasement and atonement that is being performed before me. the service and surrender sometimes overwhelming sometimes constantly absent, each part of this drama played out in complete absorption of the self either into the necessary action or else in the layers of the mind, digesting everything as the food of the ego. there are no walks or time spent away except as sleeping and eating. the travel from one point to another is always directed never from any internal desire but only as a service to another. what exists is the light and dark of rooms and corridors being painted muted pastels and having no odors or intrusions. the world outside is a whisper of greys and blues and black. interior to the interior the light has little sway and only faces shine and monitors drown the shuffling feet with metronomic bleating. there are no voices, only the waves of one form melting shifting from morning to night, replaced endlessly, each melting into the next, hearts and hands cold and warm, helping and hurting, all paralyzed with intention that has been boxed into the narrowest passage allowed .to endure is the strength of immobility and unfeeling muting, the rest is the ego fleeing, as every action has no food to give no succor or pleasure, only giving away everything until what remains exceeds even the greatest treasure, beyond gift or tribute, there is the silent surrender, the mother of all freedom, to serve.