Screw it. The Buddha's long dead, taking his secrets -- if they were ever anything more than a gift for wowing the crowd -- with him. I've got no Buddha nature, and neither have you, and neither have these precious Rinpoches. What I've got is a cesspool of anger and baffled ambition. There's nothing else in here. No compassion. And it's thoroughly "in here." I am completely circumscribed by the walls of this filthy self, completely cut off from everyone else. If anyone else is even out there.
All the beauty is gone, all the delight, all the joy. And in this moment I don't believe any of them were ever here. Fantasies. And even those fantasies, drenched in dreams of empire, or in nightmares of loathing. Like an old dog feebly kicking in his dreams, chasing non-existent rabbits. Catching them too, no doubt, and tearing them to shreds with his dream teeth. I'll wake up soon enough, to find my real teeth as rotten as ever, though the bleeding rabbit may be real enough. A botch of a life.