The Window Sill Where Flowers Fall

I've fallen in love with talking to myself. I always enjoy lying comfortably when no one's around, telling myself those secrets no one knows. Occasionally I read things I wrote before and sense the paleness and emptiness of that period — that lifeless struggling. They're right: people always have to go in, come out, and when they go in again, they see things through more clearly. And sometimes, that going in and out might as well be the turning of the world — what you've lost and what you've gained, compared to the rolling river of history, is truly "a mayfly entrusted to heaven and earth, a single grain in the vast sea." The tragedy of life isn't helplessness — ignorance is the most terrifying, and worse than ignorance is human laziness.

The night is truly quiet, especially after midnight. Such a mysteriously flavored time, I almost don't want to waste it. I haven't written anything in a long time, and suddenly I'm afraid I'll just quietly exit from here on out. So I clutch at tonight as if it were a life-saving straw. Only then do I realize what I wanted is nothing more than that.

A person who is constantly purifying their soul will always be ensnared by wisps and threads of things that bind them like a net. Rushing along the path of cultivation, I could wipe away the crowd's contempt, but discovering the Way in my heart was also unexpected.

What is love, after all? What can love actually do? You could say all the world's evils come from love and return to love — love is all-powerful. They say because of love, therefore love — perhaps love is the true Way. Then all confusion is born in the heart and extinguished in the heart — so what is there to be confused about, and why be confused? Love is like the present night, beginning in the day and ending in the day — so why love, why not love?

Everything that can't be figured out has its own unfathomable reason, just as only the night's darkness reveals the twinkling stars. Some things, after all, are beyond the reach of ordinary people. Why does a person become vain? Perhaps truly from love — so it must also end because of love. Imagined virtualities truly exist, yet their life is constantly overlooked. Could it be that some things are destined to remain in obscurity? True transcendence is loving without loving, so there are still things that exist beyond opposites. Night and day are opposites — but which moment of black and which moment of white are opposed? Opposites have asymmetric points; perhaps a coin doesn't have just two sides, which seems to defy common sense.