Suddenly – or perhaps not suddenly – it’s so much more difficult to focus. My eyes are tired. They won’t let me zoom in. I have to make a huge effort to see the words on the page in front. And, of course, inevitably, it all becomes a metaphor. As clumsy and open to mockery as that is, I can’t focus any more. I keep thinking, what was the point of it all? Of all those days and nights of concentrated attention, both intellectual, but also in the sense of sitting, just sitting, and waiting to see what happens to the mind when it is forced, in the hatha sense, to yoke its experience to the experience of the body and the breath. How can I justify a study that brings this understanding to bear on the huge and urgent issues of our relationship with the world we grew up in, as a species? I know this happens with every PhD at some point. It stands to reason that one loses ones sense of purpose at some point or another. But for this to happen now, and at a point at which I need to be most prepared to defend what I have written, is somewhat disconcerting. I can easily imagine myself, in response to the inevitable question, what did you do this for? To what end? Quoting Eliot. It points to one end, which is always present. But to what purpose? I do not know. There is no out there purpose, no aim towards which I can set a goal or compass. I can only remain a momentary presence, recognising, recording, and ultimately, if ultimatum has any significance, realising each moment as it arises, making its existence known to itself, becoming the system of self reflection that lights up the system. Becoming an illumination. Without any hope of reward. Hopeless, isn’t it?


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