The Last to Comment Wins

JayMark

JayMark

It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Tempokai

Tempokai

The Overworked One
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The Dao of the Divine Keyboard​


Master Li Xuan had spent decades meditating in the mountains, contemplating the Dao, and achieving what most people in modernity could only dream of: absolutely nothing. His disciples often asked him for guidance, and his favorite response was to stare at them in silence until they either understood or left in frustration. It was a highly effective teaching method.


But one fateful day, the hermit sage received an object that would change his philosophy forever—a smartphone, gifted by a well-meaning disciple who thought perhaps the master should have some connection to the outside world, in case he ever needed to, you know, order takeout or something.


“Master, this device will allow you to communicate with us at any time,” the disciple said, holding out the glowing rectangle with reverence, as though offering the Dao itself.


Li Xuan, ever the embodiment of detached indifference, raised an eyebrow. "Communicate? The Dao does not speak. The Dao does not strive. The Dao simply is."


“Yes, but... you can also use it to order dumplings.”


This argument, admittedly, was compelling.


And so, Li Xuan accepted the device, though he had no intention of actually using it. That is, until one evening when a disciple sent him a message:


Master, what is the secret to enlightenment?


Li Xuan, wise and lazy in equal measure, sighed deeply. He had answered this question a thousand times before, and no matter how he phrased it—through riddles, parables, or cryptic one-liners—nobody ever truly understood.


Then, as if guided by the Dao itself, he noticed the tiny keyboard on the screen. More importantly, he noticed that it had a function called autofill—a divine force that could summon words from the void with a mere flick of his finger.


Wu wei, he thought. Let go. Do not force the words. Let them arise naturally, without effort.


So he placed his thumb upon the keyboard and allowed autofill to decide his response.


"The way to enlightenment is to let the chicken know that you are very good at the moment of truth."


Master Li Xuan stared at the message. Profound. Completely nonsensical, yet undeniably profound.


He sent it.


Moments later, his disciple responded:


Master, I do not understand. Is the chicken a metaphor? What is the moment of truth?


Li Xuan exhaled slowly through his nose. Such foolish attachment to meaning. He relaxed his mind and let his fingers rest once more upon the sacred autofill, allowing fate to dictate the next teaching.


"The chicken is not the chicken, and yet the chicken is always watching. Trust the process, and the soup will be ready when the stars align."


The disciple, overwhelmed by the sheer depth of this wisdom, immediately left his worldly possessions behind and set off into the mountains to ponder the cosmic significance of poultry.


Li Xuan chuckled. This was much easier than actually thinking.


Word of his miraculous digital Daoist teachings spread rapidly. Soon, countless seekers bombarded him with messages:


Master, how can I find balance?


Autofill answered:


"Balance is a chair with three legs that does not fall because it has already accepted falling as part of standing."


Master, how do I overcome my desires?


Autofill whispered through his fingers:


"Desires are just small fish in the river. Let the fish swim, but do not become the fish, unless the fish is you."


Within weeks, Li Xuan had become the most famous Daoist sage in the world—all because he let the Dao (and his phone’s predictive algorithm) do the work for him.


But, of course, such power inevitably attracts skepticism. One day, a young scholar, armed with a PhD in Comparative Philosophy and an unshakable confidence in his own intelligence, decided to challenge the great Master.


"Master Li Xuan, your teachings are nonsense! You do not think, you do not write with intention, and yet fools follow you as though you are a sage. If wisdom is so effortless, why do we even study?"


Li Xuan calmly set his phone upon his lap, closed his eyes, and took a slow breath. Then, with absolute serenity, he tapped upon the keyboard, allowing the divine autofill to answer for him.


"Wisdom is the fish, but the fish does not study the water. The water carries the fish, and the fish simply goes."


The scholar turned pale. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He staggered backward, struck by an existential crisis so severe that he abandoned academia and opened a tea shop.


Li Xuan nodded to himself. Another soul enlightened.


And thus, the sage continued his work, effortlessly guiding humanity toward wisdom one autofilled message at a time.


But of course, balance must always be maintained. One day, as he attempted to send an order for dumplings, his autofill betrayed him:


"Bring me the empty void of longing and let it be filled with eternal sorrow."


The restaurant, deeply moved by this poetic request, sent him an empty bowl and a single chopstick.


It was then that Li Xuan realized: even the Dao, in its infinite wisdom, had a sense of humor.


And so, he laughed.


For laughter, after all, is the truest embodiment of wu wei—the art of letting go.
 
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