The Paradox of Detachment: Who Is Truly Free?
A wandering monk once said, "The one who knows that his body is temporary and is unshaken by its fate is closest to liberation." But if that’s true, then who is truly detached—the fearless warrior who laughs in the face of death, the rogue who risks everything without a second thought, or the mystic who hides behind mantras and astrological charts, seeking protection from every possible misfortune?
Let’s take a moment to step into their worlds.
The Warrior’s Detachment
Steel in hand, battle-scarred, the warrior strides into the storm, knowing he may not return. Death is not an enemy but an old companion, whispering at the edges of his consciousness. Pain? Just another moment passing, no different from the wind cutting across his face.
Before him stretches a battlefield—a graveyard in the making, where the earth drinks steel and blood alike. Blades glint like fangs in the sun, and the air is thick with the scent of iron and blood. He moves forward, stepping over corpses yet to fall, striking, bleeding, killing, knowing that at any instant, fate may turn its gaze upon him.
His body is not his own; it is merely a vessel for war, a tool sharpened for a purpose greater than himself. If detachment means surrendering the fear of death, if liberation is the release from clinging to the fragile shell of flesh—then isn’t he already free? Or is his fearlessness not wisdom, but just the grim acceptance of a world where life has no promises, only endings?
The Rogue and the Drifter
Then there’s the rogue—the outlaw who lives on the edge, the gambler who places his life on the table with a smirk, the wanderer who owns nothing yet moves freely. He has no permanent home, no ties to wealth, no concern for the future. Society may call him reckless, but is he not more detached than the merchant hoarding gold in fear of loss? Or is his non-attachment just another escape, a refusal to commit to anything real?
The Prostitute’s Reality
And what of the woman in the shadows, the one who offers her body as if it were no more than a garment to be worn and discarded? She moves through the night like a whisper, a ghost in silks, untouched by the love or loathing of those who seek her. If detachment means not identifying with the flesh, then is she not closer to liberation than those who clutch desperately at their purity, fearing even the brush of desire?
Yet, is she truly free? Or do unseen chains still bind her—the weight of a world that scorns her even as it seeks her out? Does she give without attachment, or has she merely learned to silence the voice that once longed for something more? If she offers herself without shame, without illusion, without expectation, then is she not as unshackled as the wandering ascetic, the sage who renounces his body in search of truth?
Perhaps freedom is not in what one gives or withholds, but in the mind that holds nothing at all.
The Mystic Who Clings to Protection
Then there is the seeker, draped in robes, whispering spells at dawn, his voice trembling with devotion or is it fear? He bows before the heavens, tracing sacred symbols, clutching charms meant to ward off unseen misfortunes. He speaks of renunciation, of detachment, yet his nights are restless, spent calculating omens and pleading with the stars to soften their decree.
If the body is fleeting, why shield it with spells? If destiny is unchangeable, why beg the cosmos to rewrite its script? He prays for liberation, yet clings to the very world he claims to transcend. He fears hunger, disease, misfortune—things the rogue laughs at, the warrior faces, and the woman in the shadows endures without pretense.
Is he not more bound than those who walk their paths without illusion? He renounces gold but hoards protection. He rejects the world yet fears its touch. In his quest to master fate, has he not become its most devoted servant?
The Singer and Detachment
Then there is the singer, who cannot hide behind illusions, for to sing is to surrender. The unskilled hesitate, but the master bares his soul without fear, knowing music is not his to keep. Each note is given away, dissolving as soon as it is born—like breath, like life.
Yet, is he truly free, or does he cling to the need for an audience, for remembrance? If the afterlife is for the unburdened, then the singer who sings without fear, who vanishes into his song, may already be there.
So, Who Is Truly Free?
Perhaps detachment is not in rejecting the body, nor in offering it freely to fate or desire—it is in knowing, beyond all doubt, that you were never the body to begin with.
The warrior who fights without ego, embracing death as easily as breath. The rogue who moves without fear, unburdened by past or future. The woman who gives without shame, untouched by judgment, neither proud nor broken. The mystic who prays without desperation, seeking nothing, grasping at nothing. Each may have brushed against true freedom, or each may still be ensnared in unseen chains of their own making.
Liberation is not in how one treats the body, but in seeing through the illusion that it was ever you. To move through the world unshaken, untouched—not because you deny life, but because you know it was never yours to hold.