He used to come by the river when he was a child. His parents would take him, and he would frolic in the verdant meadows adjacent to the crystalline river. Glimpses of memory arise as he strolls down the same path he once walked along. Now he had aged. No longer a boy, no longer a young man. His parents had both passed away and he now had a new family of his own. He knows he will take his daughter down the same path one day.
He puts his head down by the river and listens. His eyes shut. For a moment, everything seems still, and then the perspective shifts. There is a cacophony of movement, ever changing and inexorable. Sound, sight, sensation all arise in the same place appearing as quickly as they vanish, leaving no imprint. A timeless dance.
Another shift - and the eternal story is heard. The constant monologue is seen from a different perspective - a story one is constantly telling. Telling who? What is this story? Where is it coming from? It’s as if you suddenly see from above.
Insight - maybe holding onto any of this is painful. What happens if one just lets it happen? One goes around thinking they are an entity on the river, and thus they have to fight the river to get what they want. But maybe, there is no entity. It’s a ghost, a construct. Maybe there is just a river. Maybe not even that. You listen closely. Listen. There is just sound. There is just sensation. There is just sight. No centre. Mono no aware.