Scraps Of Paper

Imagine, if you will,

Five hundred thousand large sheets of paper.

Now imagine,

This paper being cut

Into billions of tiny pieces of confetti.

 

Next imagine a crane

That gathers those bits of paper,

And loads them onto hundreds of helicopters.

 

Next imagine the helicopters

Sent to different parts of the earth,

And dropping the confetti

Across thousands of towns and villages

Around the world.

 

Now imagine,

People around the world

Picking up the pieces of the paper,

And reading a word or a phrase.

 

Then imagine,

The people following the directions

Of that word or phrase.

 

Yet despite a hundred years of practice,

Thousands of days of searching,

And thousands of hours of hoping,

They remain where they started.

Never having moved

An inch.

 

Such is the state,

Such is the situation,

In the world.

 

Millions of books

Millions of austerities

Millions of recommendations

Millions of prescriptions . . .

 

Yet man

Never moves an inch.

 

The books of the world.

The authors of the word.

The priests and guru’s of the world.

Anyone and everyone in the world . . .

Tell only small parts

Of the Whole.

 

Man is given

A piece of confetti.

 

He views the piece of confetti

As the whole.

 

Thus, his life

Remains fragmented.

 

He searches for Completion

Through advice

That is incomplete.

 

All that a man hears in this life.

All that a man reads in the world.

Are but scraps

Of paper.

 

Namaste.