Yesterday I decided that what I really needed was to treat myself: I turned on the AC. I got a massage. I spent most of the day in bed reading. And, unsurprisingly, I ended up feeling the worse for it. How many times will I need to repeat these mistakes to see that this is not what I need? How often will I retreat into the illusion of comfort before I see it as just that: an illusion? All of the mind’s delights are but like poisoned cakes. Sweet, yes, but offering no sustenance and deadly pain to follow.
Posted by: Michael Rickicki | 06/30/2019
Poisoned Cakes
Posted in Buddha, Buddhism, Dhamma, Sensual Desire, Taṇhā, Theravada | Tags: illusion, poisoned cake
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