That sign from above

Once upon a time, there was a monk who didn't know what Ferrari was. He lived in the wildness, away from everything that once bothered him. He kept lowering his wants every passing day. Make no mistake, he had a proper inkling of what was going on in the world outside; a world driven by countless ambitions and faceless cruelties. Regardless, he was keen on attaining enlightenment his own way. For that, he believed he needed to lead an austere life; a life devoid of greed or transgressions. He ate frugal and meditated most of his hours. He built a small hut for himself just to avoid rain. There was absolute peace in his existence. There were no wild animals to bother him. Every once in a while, a gecko sneaked in but his days of equating it with Komodo dragons were gone. He wasn't scared to die anyway. The only noise he heard were the chirping and the swirls of the river that flowed by, not very far away from his settlement. He loved walking to the river bank, to gaze as far as possible, absorbing all the beauty that nature has to offer in the form of tiny dandelions and mighty mountains. It'd be fair to state that he was closer to nirvana than the river was to his hut. Nothing troubled him, not even the vilest episodes of his past. There were no nightmares to escape. He slept blissfully and didn't have ulcers or gout or piles. He was in his early 40s but his skin radiated while his thoughts were clearer than the water in that goddamned river mentioned earlier. One afternoon, after having two pears for lunch, he was sitting outside his hut looking up at the sky. On cue, the clouds formed a middle finger salute. He couldn't resist a smile. Even the gods were envious of him.