The obstacle on love's path—what I call it... 'I' and 'mine', what I have seen, heard, known; what I perceive, what reaches my ears, what I understand—all of it becomes yours. When I dismiss it all and sit in darkness, even then I am the knower of that darkness, and 'mine'—the darkness I know—becomes you and yours. Then there remains nothing of 'I' and 'mine' distinct from 'you'. Ego crumbles to dust. That is what I desire.
You say that without you there is no distinct 'I'—and to grasp this clearly, I withdraw from the crowd into solitude, leave light for darkness. Yet even when I perceive my unity with you, I find there exists a paradoxical distinction within our non-duality. I bid farewell to your cosmic form; little by little it returns. I remember the sights of far and near, past events arise in present memory. For you there is no distance between far and near, no gap between past and present—all dwells within you equally, eternally, the same. All returns to me from you. You lose nothing; I lose all, then recover it again.
I cannot deny this distinction between you and me. Yet in sleep, even this sense of difference does not remain with me. Then the very sense of 'I' dissolves into you. And in this hidden state, nothing of mine is lost. When I wake, you restore to me my sense of 'I'. Gradually the knowledge I have gathered returns, shaping my waking life. In this waking world, the transaction between 'you' and 'I', the play of sameness and difference, continues ceaselessly.
That this play is the play of love—you have shown me this a thousand times over. No one compels you to enact it; you do so of your own accord, freely. If you did not love it, you would not do it; you do it because you love it. You would not create me separately from yourself, nurture me, teach me knowledge, teach me love, demand my love—none of this would you do if you did not love me truly. This is the essence of creation, the very heart of it, which you are revealing to me.
How much have I learned? This essence, this core truth, must be reminded to me again and again. So be it. In this, my pride of knowledge crumbles to nothing. One who cannot hold such wisdom, who must be told it over and over, has gained no knowledge at all—his boasting of knowledge is utterly hollow. Through this crushing of my pride, I understand, you will make me yours, perfect me as a lover in your love. Let it be so.
How many obstacles there are to becoming a lover—I do not know them all, so why, even at this advanced age, have I not become one? This thought torments me, and at times I despair. Why have you not yet made me a lover? Thus I lodge a complaint against you. Perhaps you have made many others lovers by relatively easier means. In my case I see a different arrangement!
What use is complaint? Not along the path I have chosen, but along the path of your intent, you will lead me to the dwelling place of love. 'You will lead'—this promise alone sustains me. In this very assurance, it seems, I have already traveled far. How much longer, then, can there be to wait?