I am nobody.
And my story is insignificant.
It weighs less than a grain of sand upon a sandy beach,
yet it weighs me down.
What I do and say, today or tomorrow, does it really matter?
Even these words are meaningless, the vacuous expression of an illusory self.
Even my actions evaporate straight after the deed.
I exist within an empty space.
When I let go of the story I am light and free.
Hermit, recluse, ascetic, mystic...nobody.
So it doesn't matter if I do Ashtanga vinyasa, Iyengar yoga, or any yoga at all.
It doesn't matter if I meditate or pray or chant
or rise at 5am
or eat organic
or make art or money
or travel or teach or work or aspire to lofty spiritual goals
or leave a trail of good deeds behind me for posterity.
Humble is the little grain of sand upon a sandy beach without a story.