The end? The beginning? The great drama, the great conflict. It is the culmination of our lives, it is the destination we have journeyed towards since birth, and we have no idea what it is.
Disaster, death, celebration. What drives us? what defines...
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I was twenty-five and traveling the world alone, just me, near Kota Kinabalu, on Borneo by the sea.
I wandered on a shell-strewn path where the jungle met the sand, when a balmy breeze passed through the trees of a nearby banyan stand.
A swinging figure caught my eye, in saffron robes bedecked, a monk that swayed from side to side, hanged from a rope until he died, with a sign hung from his neck.
I stared in horror toward the tree and tried to read the sign, while to and fro the figure swung upon the point the rope was hung, like a pendulum marking time.
The words were written in Malay and left my mind beguiled, with paint deep red, the legend said, "This was the monk who smiled."
I stared into the dead man's face considering how he'd sinned, and noticed now, between the boughs, that still the monk's corpse grinned.
I said a prayer before I left, then headed toward the sea, and wondered then what those cruel men would choose to do to me, if I could meet my death with grace, a blissful smile upon my face, not mad or scared, devoid of cares, in this exotic place.
