An Essay on Pickle

Pickles are meant to be consumed after a period of fermentation. It’s intended to be savored in a leisurely fashion. Practically anything is ripe for pickling. You write diary entries to preserve your life as a pickle. Note that you’re able to read this pickle essay because you’ve been marinated in basic education. The longer Peace is fermented in War, the stronger its flavor.

In English, it’s called pickle, but every culture has its own pickling method. You can get a delicious pickle simply by preserving a photo of your first love. The Earth is a pickled fruit of the Universe, to be consumed at a certain time.

Those who immerse their mind in the Law of Impermanence and Dharma shall be allowed to taste the pickle of Nirvana. The mere act of living seasons you, in order to transform you into a tasty pickle. Some age their hearts in alcohol and smoke their lungs in nicotine. Others choose to stew instead in equal measures of excessive anger, greed, and envy.

We are the pickles of uncertain taste produced by our parents. We were fermented in male and female sperms in a woman’s womb for a period of roughly seven to nine months. Currently there are about 6.5 billion pickles who call themselves “I,” according to census documents.

Burying a corpse can be viewed as a kind of fermentation, or geographical pickling. Those who believe in the afterlife steep their current life in donations, hoping to taste the pickled merit in their next life.

Some say we can create poetic pickles if we know how to soak and reshape our experiences in language. The God of Rain seems to want to soak everything in water, but it’s unclear what kind of pickle he hopes to make. Perhaps the God of Rain himself is a pickled dish, a creator cooked up by Humanity.

To sum up, anything can be pickled, and everything tastes better fermented. Even Time, when seasoned and aged, turns into tasty bits of History.

Tha Kount Tharr
Translated from the Burmese by Kenneth Wong