Why is it called rock bottom? It is not made of rocks, but of soft musty hills wrapped in purple. I am here very still, while thousands of needles are perforating my skin with lack of emotions, no transfusion of feelings being possible. No houses, no clouds, no giggling. Only a still photograph with a foamy frame made of my flesh. I am the rock bottom.

No wishes, no thoughts of wishes, no hopes trained to grow up to become wishes, no thoughts. I think it’s called rock bottom because emptiness doesn’t have a shape on its own and it has to borrow a random one from that pile of boulders right there in front of me, blocking the horizon from here to the eternity. The outside of me is the rock bottom.

The beauty of being within of and surrounded by a rock bottom is that there is only one way out of it, if I want to get out, that’s it – through every rock bottom that piles within me to mirror the wall around me. The way you make rock bottoms irrelevant is not by trying to crumble each and one of these countless grains of purple sand into another pile of countless rock bottoms, but by staying still. Giving up the will, giving up the fight. Peace. Rock bottom is peace.

No tears, no struggle, only the assonant music of nothingness. I am not when I am so forcefully against the rock bottom, against myself. I am when I am not any more against rock bottoms.

Let it all come to you, become you – that is the only way it will all go away. Accepting our condition as grain of sands is the only way we can transcend this condition. Breath. Still. Breath. Still. Breath. Welcome home, you prodigal soul.