A ceremony

The spoon was all golden and beautiful when he pulled it out from the honey pot, and he spent a moment admiring that beauty. He smiled. With an amazing expertise, he turned the spoon around twice, rolling golden threads of honey around it until they stopped falling down.
Then he let the spoon slowly glide down into the cup of warm milk and sighed, softly.
"There is no anger," he said, like a mantra or a truth he had just discovered. "There is no hate."
He watched as the last of the waves the spoon had caused slowly faded.
"There is no yesterday, no tomorrow. No mosquitoes that bite me, no moths in my cupboards. No tragedy in my life and no sadness."
He smiled for a moment.
"No happiness, no love, no desire."
His eyes closed as he tried to focus. With slow, circling, shaking movements, he stirred he milk, both speeding the process of disintegration up and perfecting it.
"There is milk," he said, with the utmost certainty.
"There is honey."
Then he sat quietly, until even the last bit of honey had dispersed into the milk, repeating his own words in his head over and over again. He tasted them, tested them, wanted to see if they were really worthy.
"There was honey," he finally told himself, "and it tried to make a difference. There was milk."
He took a sip.
"There are no moths in my cupboards," he said, and realized how true it was. "No mosquitoes. No problems."
A sigh, a soft, and warm sigh, that showed just how much that fact relieved him, escaped from his lips.
"No love, no hate, no me, no you, no name in this whole wide world that would make me shiver of fear or excitement or joy. No feelings. There is sweet and warm milk, and it makes a difference."

Leaning back, he absent-mindedly scratched one of the many mosquito bites on his arm.