Out of nowhere comes the desire to make a good impression. So we arrange our faces, adjust our bodies, think of something to say. It’s strange. Who wants as his epitaph this lusterless encomium: “He made a good impression”?
Nothing fans the flames of desire like I-am-the-body consciousness. The man who thinks he’s a body is a rolling appetite. His eyes tell the story.
Sex is not bad. It’s the desire for sex that creates a howling host of problems. It’s the same with possessions. We have them because we want them, not because we need them.
All that’s necessary is to want what happens. Herein the flower of peace, the death of desire.
Pleasure’s not a problem—until we think we can’t be happy without it.