Early morning. I walk the straight path, intent on my purpose, which is to get some exercise before the day's heat comes on, make my circuit and move on to other things. Blackberry bushes loom on both sides of the path. With each passing day, the fruits are turning blacker, juicier, sweeter. They're a blur as I stride along. But suddenly one berry, fatter and darker than the others, comes into sharp focus. And before I know what I'm doing, I'm over there, reaching. I get it, and it's tastier than I thought it would be. So I go for another. And another.
Then I'm stepping over the tangle of thorns, reaching for the clutches of berries farther back. I don't care that my legs get scratched, my clothes get torn. I barge farther in. I have an attitude: these are my berries and nothing will keep me from them. The plant's spiny defenses do not deter me; on the contrary, the pain and difficulty only stimulate my urge for reward.
I trip, fall. I'm down on my ass on a mat of thorns. If I try to push myself up with my hands, I'll get punctured palms. No matter -- I'll just eat some of these power berries and pop back up later. But first I'll take a nap, like a yogi on a bed of nails. My weight is distributed among the sharp points, and I don't feel much. I dream of nirvana.
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