In a quiet room—
bare, undecorated, almost forgotten—
two figures sit across from one another.
The room holds no symbols of importance.
No scriptures.
No instruments.
Only silence, seasoned by time.
One figure is a beggar. His clothes are worn thin from years of use. His posture leans slightly forward, as if searching the ground for an answer that once fell and never came back. His eyes hold the familiar ache of humanity—the feeling that something vital is missing, just beyond reach.
Across from him sits a King.
Not robed.
Not crowned in gold.
Not elevated above the room.
He sits simply.
Effortlessly.
As someone who has never needed to arrive anywhere to feel complete.
Between them, a single lamp glows.
Its light is gentle, unassuming. It doesn't demand attention or proclaim itself as sacred. It simply illuminates whatever is present.
The beggar breaks the silence.
“I have spent my life searching,” he says.
"I study the world. I gather ideas.
"I chase meaning."
I move from one thing to the next—hoping that one day I will finally find what fulfills me.”
The King nods—not in agreement, but in recognition.
“You remind me,” the King says softly,
“of someone staring endlessly at the objects in this room—believing the light belongs to the chair, the wall, or the floor it touches.”
The beggar looks up. Something stirs.
“But without those things,” he asks, "what would the light reveal?”
The King lifts his hand and gestures toward the lamp.
“Notice,” he says, "the light does not belong to what it illuminates."
It is present before the object appears—
and it remains when the object is gone.”
The beggar turns his gaze inward toward the room itself.
The walls.
The shadows.
The quiet dance of illumination.
So,” he says slowly,
"I have mistaken what is seen... for what is seeing.”
A gentle smile appears on the King’s face.
“Yes,” he replies.
“You have lived as a beggar because your attention has been fixed on what consciousness touches—thoughts, memories, roles, desires—never turning back to recognize the source from which they arise.”
The beggar leans forward, as something unravels.
Then what happens,” he asks, "when there is nothing left to see?"
The king's voice drops to a whisper.
Where does the light go when the room is empty?
A long pause as the beggar’s breathing slows.
The search becomes exhausted with itself.
“It doesn’t go anywhere,” he says quietly.
“It rests... in itself.”
The King nods.
“This,” he says,
“is the moment of remembering.
Not acquiring.
Not improving.
Not becoming.
The moment the chase ends, consciousness turns inward and recognizes itself as what it has always been.”
The light illuminating objects in the world.
The beggar’s shoulders relax. Something old loosens its hold—a tension he never realized he was carrying.
“And beyond that?” he asks.
The King closes his eyes.
“Beyond that,” he says, “even the beggar disappears.
There is no seeker.
No finder.
No witness standing apart from what is witnessed.
Only the light of consciousness—no longer chasing objects or thoughts—aware of itself as presence illuminating itself.
Whole without confirmation.
Complete without a name.”
The beggar looks down at his hands.
And for the first time, he notices the crown already resting upon his head.
Not placed there. Not earned. Never lost.
Only forgotten.
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