Siddhartha had a goal, one single goal: to become empty- empty of thirst, empty of desire, empty of dreams, empty of joy and sorrow. To die away from himself, no longer be self, to find peace with an emptied heart, to be open to miracles in unselfed thinking: that was his goal. When the entires self was transcended ands extinct, when every drive and every mania in the heart had fallen silent, then the ultimate was bound to awaken, the innermost essence, which is no longer the ego, the great secret.
Siddhartha practiced unselfing, practiced meditation- a heron flew over the bamboo forest- and Siddhartha took the heron into his soul, flew over forests and mountains, was a heron, ate fish, hungered heron hunger, spoke heron croaking, died a heron death. A dead jackal lay on the sandy bank, and Siddhartha’s soul slipped into the cadaver, was a dead jackal, lay on the shore, swelled, stank, rotted, was shredded by hyenas, was skinned by vultures, become skeleton, became dust, wafted into fields. And Siddhartha’s soul returned, was dead, was rotted, was dispersed, had tasted the dismal drunkenness of the cycle of life, waited in new thirst like a hunter, waited for the gap through which he could escape the cycle, where the end of the causes came, where painless eternity began.