Chapter 18 - Buddhist

The ideology I carry, in my essence, is amorality. I am not bound by the chains that morality imposes, with its rigid notions of right and wrong, because I see these distinctions as human constructs, fragile and limited. When I look at the world, I see only a web of actions and reactions, without the need to classify them as good or bad. What is right for one may be wrong for another, and thus, we lose ourselves in our own definitions, forgetting that, in the grand scheme of existence, these categories seem almost irrelevant.

In my view, amorality is not a state of indifference or evil, but of freedom. It is the acceptance that life does not need to follow the norms we've created for it. And perhaps, by embracing this perspective, we might find a deeper truth, a purer understanding of existence. There is no judgment, only being. And in this absence of judgment, perhaps the real meaning of life is revealed, something that goes beyond what we can comprehend with our limited minds.

The world, in its raw essence, began to manifest on an ordinary morning. The first rays of light filtered through the window, and once again, I found myself immersed in that cycle of hours that followed one after another, like pieces of a puzzle that never quite completed itself. The coffee on the table, the smoke rising gently, the books that seemed to whisper in silence, as if the very air was imbued with stories waiting to be told. Life, in an almost imperceptible way, continued to unfold before me. Or perhaps I was the only one truly perceiving what was happening. After all, we are all characters in the vast stage of existence, and there is always a role to play, even if we don't always know what it is.

I walked to the front door, feeling the cool, damp air from the street. Each step, simple, almost meaningless, seemed to echo in the emptiness around me, as if I were beginning to understand the weight each movement carried. It wasn't just the weight of the body shifting, but the weight of existence itself. Each movement of mine, like everyone else's, seemed to align with the movements of thousands of other bodies and souls who, for some reason, were still trying to find something – something they perhaps didn't even know what it was. I felt this in every breath, in the way my feet touched the ground, as if the weight of life was distributed among all of us, indiscriminately.

On my way to the library, something happened. The routine, which until then seemed like the only certain thing that day, was broken. In an instant, the world opened before me in such a raw and unforgiving way that it almost took my breath away. I looked up, and I saw him: a man. He was there, at the edge of the building. Empty eyes, tense body, and, in a nearly mechanical movement, he jumped. The sound of the impact was muffled by the distance, but the result was clear: the flesh, the bones, the viscera, the blood spread across the sidewalk in a grotesque manner, a spectacle of despair and resignation. I stopped, as if I had been petrified. What lay before me was not just a tragic scene, but a symbol of everything he had been. The blood on the ground was not just a red fluid; it wasn't merely the substance that nourished his body. No, it was everything he was. The blood was his being, his existence condensed and finally released, gone in an instant. It was the final farewell, not of a person, but of their life, thrown to the wind, dissolved in the concrete, dissolved in oblivion.

I stood there, watching. And, as I looked at that stain on the ground, I somehow felt the lightness and fragility of all human life. As if, by seeing the spilled blood, I was also looking at the end of something greater. Every life that passes, every moment of pain, regret, poorly made decisions, all of it dissolves in the end, without answer, without redemption, like the blood that spilled on the sidewalk, slowly draining away. But, at the same time, there was no sadness in me. There was only stillness, an acceptance of what was. Because, in the end, the man was no different from a fallen leaf, a river that gets lost in the sea, something that dissolves in the vastness of the world and time.

With a long sigh, I continued my way. I didn't need to understand everything. I didn't need to feel compassion, or sorrow. What happened around me, whether life or death, was already part of something larger that transcended my own perception. Every person, every being that fades away in the world was like a leaf carried by the wind, and, like the leaves, lives dissipate. The blood that remained there was merely the last memory, a reflection of what someone was, of what someone ceased to be.

I arrived at the library, and the world of death dissipated, replaced by the shadows and the smell of books. The atmosphere was heavy, almost dense, as if the air had accumulated the ideas and stories of the generations that had passed through there. I approached the table, and with a mechanical gesture, opened the nearest book. There was no hurry. There was no hurry in anything. Each page turned was a reminder that time, in its purest form, doesn't care about what we do or don't do. It just moves on. And I, like everyone, was just a small fragment of its endless flow.

I began to read, but, as always happens, the words mixed with my thoughts. I didn't need to search for more answers. I didn't need to know the reason for everything, for every life. What I knew, without a doubt, was that the truth was not there, in the pages of the books, or in the conversations of others. The truth was in what was omitted, in what wasn't said, in what slipped away. The man who had committed suicide, the blood he had left behind, were merely confirmation of what I already knew: that the meaning of life is an illusion, that the only immutable truth is disappearance. Everything, eventually, dissolves. The blood is just a reflection of this. It, and everything that once defined us, fades away. And nothing remains, except the stillness.

I turned another page. The warmth of the coffee cup had already disappeared. The silence of the library seemed to fill the space, and I, as always, was immersed in it. No hurry. No need to understand. Because, in the end, understanding would be just another form of illusion. The truth is not found in explanations. It is in the acceptance of the emptiness that we are.