Plastering the Wall of Thought: 107

Thought: Seven Hundred Forty-Three

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One. Whatever time I spend with you in silence, or am forced to spend in silence, I assume has gone entirely to waste. Conversation with the one you love never runs dry—it is life itself that runs out while the words flow on.

All these endless words—I know you sometimes go mad listening, and I seem terribly monotonous to you, I know it all. Yet I continue this way. Who knows whose turn comes first! If the speaker should perish before all the words are spent, how will these burning questions find their rest? Even if I should vanish, may these words of mine enchant you moment by moment, again and again, for whatever journey remains ahead—this is all I want. I know they will. It is because I have that much faith in my love that I understand this.

Two. I love the person I love—in my thoughts, my mind, my brain there is no one else, never has been even by mistake of the heart. No one else has ever come, nor ever comes.

The one I love—resting my head upon their chest, or even without resting it—I think of them every moment. I have no regrets about my beloved. There is only one unfulfilled longing regarding them: I cannot have them close to me, beyond this there is nothing else.

My beloved doesn't understand me, causes me great anguish, doesn't much care about many things. This does not mean in any way that I will fill that emptiness through someone else. This is the very peace of love! The one I love—even in the pain they give, I love only them. In their absence, swallowing their neglect and indifference, to fill that space with someone else while keeping them in mind—this cannot be love. My beloved is human, a mixture of good and bad, and even if they don't suit me in every way, by enduring what I don't receive from them, someday they will pay attention to me, someday they will want to change themselves for that person whose love they have been neglecting. But for this, patience is needed.

Another very familiar matter is this: our happiness torments the devil, so whenever we are happy with our beloved, the devil begins inserting various wicked thoughts into our minds so that we are compelled to think that the one I am with is not right for me. My true beloved must be someone else!

Three. I myself am quite an abnormal girl. I love you, that's true, but the greater truth is that I can never give you a normal and beautiful relationship. Nothing about me is normal—the abnormal things I do, I myself don't properly understand them. I came to you loving you; I thought love could accomplish everything, so with abundant love I would keep you happy, and I had the desire to be your closest and most beloved.

You have given me everything, have continued giving. But whatever else I may give you, I cannot give you peace, nor do I think I ever will. I have many faults and flaws that have become my habits. The way I behave with you—in truth, I am nothing beyond that.

Though you might be able to make me happy, I cannot make you happy, cannot bring you peace, because I simply don't understand these things. Rather than accepting me this way and carrying on, if we separate now at least we'll have some good memories.
Live well in your own way, dear. Leave me to myself. For everything you've done for me, I will remain grateful to you for my entire life, right until the moment before my death. I can no longer bear these daily troubles. Forgive me for all my mistakes. Be well. Never call me again, darling. Take care of yourself. Be well.
Four. Tell me, why have I become or am I becoming so possessive day by day? I don't want to give you to anyone, don't want to share you with anyone. You know, if women develop fewer crushes on you because your hair keeps falling out like this, then spend the rest of your life bald. Let your belly grow bigger, let you turn dark, let clear marks of age appear on your face and eyes. Let you become fat and ugly, so that no woman ever sets her eyes on you. I won't let anyone have you, no no no! Has anyone in this world ever been able to love without being this possessive?
Five. Today I learned that the person I love more than myself, above everything I have, I only have permission to love that person—I have no other rights whatsoever. I cannot say anything to him; if I want to know something, it becomes interrogation or demanding explanations. I cannot call him whenever I want or talk to him, cannot see him at will, cannot ask for his nearness!
Sometimes I wonder, am I truly your beloved, or just a showpiece? If as your beloved you always treat me exactly the way you treat five other people, then I'm no one special to you. When I love so very much, when I try to love you with my utmost, where are you then—why don't you say anything then, why don't you ask why I love so much?
Can I not ask to know something? Why can't I? If my beloved wants to know something, will I tell him to his face that his questioning makes me feel cheap? And you tell me, is this something acceptable? What does 'feeling cheap' even mean? The person I love like crazy isn't giving me time like before, isn't talking to me the way he used to, nothing is the same anymore, and still I should just silently endure everything? Can't I want to know anything? Will wanting to know immediately become cheap interrogation? But why?
Remember one thing for your entire life. If someone truly loves you, then within them there will certainly be at least a trace of fear of losing their beloved—meaning you! If that's not there, it means that person doesn't care at all about anything of yours, about whether you stay or go. It's from the fear of losing their beloved that they always want to keep watch over that person, want to keep them close, at least make that effort.
If this small thing wounds your ego, then even if I die in this lifetime, I'll never ask you anything again, stay as you are, let me see how far you can go!
Thought: Seven Hundred Forty-Four

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One. Why are you coming to mind so late at night, can you tell me? I'm in such pain. How are you? Don't you remember me anymore? Who will you think of to pass the day today? Has someone else already come into your room? Someone who loves you dearly, isn't that so? More than I do? See, didn't I tell you? Someone like that would truly come, and they would suddenly seize my place? Though not seize—I myself have given away everything, all that you had given me.
I made the mistake of asking you for life's most precious thing. Why did I ask? Actually, it never occurred to me then that such a precious thing should be asked of someone very close. Yet I went and asked someone so distant! Will you forgive me? I won't ask for anything anymore. How much I had to hear for asking that! Do you remember all of it? See how my hand trembles even as I try to write!
Two. On days when you won't speak with me, try to let me know by 10 p.m. that you won't be able to talk today. Have you ever waited like a madman for someone all day long—do you know what each second feels like, sitting there waiting for someone, to hear someone's voice, to catch just a glimpse of someone? Do you know how it feels? You cannot even imagine how desperately I wait for your call each day, each moment. I'm not saying this with anger, resentment, or complaint, my bird. After waiting all day, when the time comes to speak with you, when you inform me that you can't talk today—the amount of pain that causes, you will never understand, unless you too have waited for someone this way.
Don't take my words as hurt, don't get angry, bird. Your illness causes me terrible pain. I'm not there with you, I don't have the privilege of caring for you, of keeping you in love and tenderness. Then when I hear such things from afar, it becomes very difficult to digest them. If I have to think before saying everything—what if you fall ill when I say this, what if you have breathing trouble again...such fears would only push me away from you, which I don't want. I want a healthy relationship with you. I want things exactly as they are.
Your good side, your happy side, your painful side, your suffering, your wounds, your lacks, your joys—I have an equal share in everything, but you're not giving that to me properly. If you stay healthy by being angry with me, if you become well by scolding me, then I want that wellness of yours. But you must also give me the fearless assurance that I can tell you everything—if I don't tell you about us both, then who else will I tell? Should I share with friends that my beloved is doing this, why they do it, I can't understand? Then they'll explain various things to me, which I'll apply to you again—do you want all this? I generally don't share my personal matters with anyone. From the day I began loving you, committed to loving you, I've considered you part of myself.
If I cannot speak freely to you, then there is no one else in my entire world to whom I can say these things—not even to my parents, never. If even with you I must calculate and weigh each word so carefully, it pains me terribly to speak with such constant vigilance. You are my life, my heart, my entire world. If you will not let me open my heart and speak freely even with you, then I will suffocate and die. If I do not survive, will you be able to live? I believe that to remain alive in this world, one beloved person is enough. You are that one person for me. Do not separate me from that person of mine. You may beat me, wound me, do whatever you wish—you have that right—but keep me close to you in all things. I cannot stay away from you, nor do I want to.
Three. Do you know what distinguishes one person from another? What is it that makes one human being different from another? Emotion. It is the emotion within a person that teaches us to recognize them as distinct from others, to separate them, to know them as separate. Try for a moment to imagine a person apart from their emotions and see what they become—then you will understand. The fact that I am so emotional, that I behave so passionately—if you look at five other girls my age, you will perhaps see that not one of them acts even a fifth as intensely as I do. I know this. But if you separate me from this, tell me whether you can still recognize me? You think of me as so emotional, and perhaps for this reason you do not value my words; perhaps for this reason you want these emotions, these excess emotions within me, to die.
They will die—there is no need for such worry. It is a very simple method for killing a person: destroy their emotions. Gradually you will see that under your constant neglect, my emotions too will be ruined, destroyed. The main problem with destroying emotion is that it cannot be recreated anew, nor can those old emotions ever be brought back. You may do whatever you wish with my emotions, but remember one thing: if for some reason they die, if these emotions that seem excessive to you are destroyed, then when the time comes that you feel their absence, no matter how much you might wish it, no matter how many tears you might shed, I will no longer be able to restore them as they once were. You know well enough that while we may have the power to destroy something easily, we do not have the power to create. So you may do whatever you wish with me—I will say nothing to you in that regard. But you will be the first to pay the price for this; just keep that in mind.
Does my being alive now, this fact that I still live, have no value to you at all? To understand the worth of a living person, do you want me to die first? Enough—I do not wish to speak anymore. I ask your forgiveness! I will never again speak with such madness. I have said so many things to you in this life, but how many of them have I actually been able to do! I only keep talking all the time—I will do this, I will do that.
I keep piling threat upon threat, and you've understood quite well that these threats of mine aren't worth a penny—they're merely words, nothing more. The truth is, I could never live a single day without you; wherever I go, I return right back to you, I'm compelled to return. That's precisely why none of my threats ever touch you.
And now your indifference has reached such a stage that you don't even have time to check my messages or reply to them. You're incredibly busy these days. You have so many other things to do—things that are far more important than I am!
Reflection: Seven Hundred Forty-Five

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One. Please, stay well, stay healthy. When you fall ill, all my work comes to a standstill. My studies, my painting, my household tasks—everything stops completely. I cannot focus on anything else. You don't know that during those days when you were sick, when you wouldn't speak to me, I prayed tahajjud every single night. Yesterday, after talking with you, I couldn't sleep a wink all night, and as a result, today I did nothing but work and sleep. That's all I accomplished today.
I love you beyond what you could even imagine. Everything in my life revolves around you. For months now, I haven't spoken to anyone except Abbu and Ammu. I live by loving you, by being with you. There's no one else in my entire world I can trust or rely on. If you can stay healthy by not talking to me, by staying away from me, then do that—I won't mind, I won't even complain about it. Just don't keep me under this pressure by falling ill. Whatever you need to do, however sick you need to be, do it when I'm physically there with you. Then at least I can take care of you. From far away, hearing these things, all I can do is thrash about helplessly, worry, and cry—please understand this much. I don't like hearing such things.
There was something else. Sometimes when I can't answer your call for some reason, or when I'm a bit late replying to you for some reason, in that brief moment you become busy with someone else on the phone. This seems strange to me. In such a short time, you're already busy with another call? Perhaps you talk to everyone at just one time of the day. I'm not the only person waiting for your call. This could be the case. You can scold me if you want, you can even fight with me, but I cannot help saying what has come to mind.
Let me tell you, I'm not a suspicious person by nature. So many things have happened to me that have forced me to doubt even those closest to me. I cannot trust anyone except you. That I've been able to trust you—truly, this is my good fortune, not yours.
Two. This feeling of goodness,

these moments,

this you,

this me—

this moment is the most precious of all.

May this goodness stay with you too,

may this feeling of goodness remain mine,

may this love remain forever.

Before you came into my life, I never knew that I could love someone this much—that I truly had the capacity to love this deeply! I have changed so much, you know?
Three. Hey, don't call me 'bilai'—I'm warning you! Or you'll be in trouble! I'll grab all the hair on your head in both my fists and pull! Don't you dare call me 'bilai'—I'm telling you!
Why, what happens if I call you bilai? Can't I lovingly call you even a little bilai-chana?
No, you can't, because calling me bilai hurts my ego. Just as calling a mad person mad might affect their mind, just as calling a dog 'kutta' might hurt them, it feels worse than that to me when I hear this.
Besides, have you ever seen a lover anywhere in the world who calls their beloved 'kitten'? Tell me, have you ever heard of such a thing?
: Why, kitten suits girls perfectly! Every cute girl in the world is a little kitten! It's a lovely name. Besides, the punishment you want to give me is now impossible for you to carry out, because at this moment my head is bald—there isn't enough hair grown yet for you to grab comfortably with both hands and pull. So even if I call you 'kitten' five more times right now, there's nothing you can do about it. Kitten kitten kitten kitten kitten...meow!
: Hey listen, if you call me 'kitten' even one more time, then I...I'll call you 'tomcat' instead! Tomcat tomcat tomcat tomcat tomcat...!
Thought: Seven Hundred and Forty-Six

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One. I used to be able to speak freely to you, say whatever came to mind, but now before uttering each word I must think a hundred times over in that brief moment — what will you think if I say this, how will you react, or will you be hurt in some way. I used to wander freely through the landscape of your thoughts, because you took all my words as innocent. And now whatever I say makes me guilty, though I myself don't understand what I've done wrong. You never used to judge me for anything, but I've become something in your eyes such that you now weigh and measure every word I speak. Perhaps you simply refuse to accept that I'm much younger than you, that I'm bound to make mistakes.
I joke with you about the heroines in your stories — perhaps you don't like this. Even when I simply ask you something trivial in the most natural way, you get angry, perhaps even hurt by it. I used to have both the right and permission to tell you everything; now I have neither, or if I do, they're rendered useless. Tell me, if I can't say anything at all, what will I talk to you about? One who loves needs no excuse to love. I loved you before, and I love you even more now, but perhaps I keep making the same mistake in something, which is why you can't take anything I say naturally anymore, and you keep withdrawing from me. I won't say anything good or bad about your writing anymore, won't even write anything in your inbox.
This solitary life in my four-walled room is truly much better than this Facebook Messenger. Perhaps I feel terribly lonely, perhaps I suffer from insecurity, perhaps I want genuine love from someone, perhaps I simply don't know how to get along with people, perhaps things don't work out even with my family — yet above all else, my solitary life is good. At least I don't have to endure anyone's imposed expectations. I do try to adjust myself to your liking when I'm with you, but no matter how many times I try, in however many ways, I only create newer problems each time. I won't come to Facebook or Messenger anymore. When I say something about your heroines, perhaps you think to yourself — I myself endure everything and remain devoted to you just like them, you don't need me at all, yet I keep returning to you again and again, and here I am making all sorts of comments about your story's heroines! The truth is, you know, when I speak, perhaps this doesn't occur to me.
The real truth is this: I understand everything. The way you joke with me — perhaps I can't joke that way, when I try to joke I end up hurting you instead, or perhaps I still haven't learned what should be joked about and what shouldn't. Call me whenever you feel like it — there's no obligation. Don't call if you don't feel like talking; you don't have to follow any fixed schedule for calling either. You have no responsibility toward me, no obligation whatsoever.
Stay with me however you wish, or not at all—everything is up to you.
I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted anything from you except you yourself, and I still don't. And the way I wanted you—I know I'll never have you that way, and I've accepted that too. Now I feel no particular pain or emotion about anything. So move forward however you choose to live. If you want, I'll even help you along your path when needed. Beyond that, I have nothing more to say. Whatever access you grant me to your life, I'll never expect more than that—you can be absolutely certain of this. Besides, I have not the slightest expectation of anyone or anything in this world, not even of love.
Two. I trust my own parents and am deceived by them again and again. Those for whom I constantly sacrifice my time, my very life—not one of them ever misses a chance to wound me. Even when they see me smile, no one around me can bear it; they all set upon me as if to ensure I cannot live with joy and laughter, though I still feel tenderness toward them and continuously surrender even my rightful claims to keep them content. I make every effort to care for those near and far who are connected to me in any way. Yet despite this, when everyone takes everything from me, when they mistake my sincerity for weakness, I no longer feel like trusting anyone.
I hold no anger or fear toward anyone, but when even one's closest people are like this, the entire world becomes truly empty. I'm thinking I won't live according to anyone else's wishes anymore, won't change myself to please others. I forgive everyone repeatedly, but in doing so I only increase my own harm, digging my own grave deeper and deeper. There are people who, once forgiven, assume that forgiveness was their due! When you save them from suffering, they take it for granted that they shouldn't have had to suffer at all! They should be allowed to understand the consequences of their mistakes.
Thought: Seven Hundred Forty-Seven

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One. Remember, I was always your beloved, never just a friend. Were we ever really friends? One can move from friendship to love, but never return from love to friendship. I used to think of you as a friend, and you—forcibly, if need be—thought of me as a lover. Yet now when I've begun to think of you as my beloved, precisely now you want to think of me as merely a friend? How does this work, tell me? Listen, do you think I'm forcing you to love me?
I'm in such anguish! I can't bear to exist without speaking to you. Don't you understand even a little how much I'm suffering? Why don't you understand? You know I can't bear to be without speaking to you, so why has it been so many days and still you haven't called once? Why do you torment me so by not speaking to me? Don't you feel even a little anguish for me? I can't bear to be without speaking to you, so how can you? Then what kind of love is yours anyway? Why did you make me so accustomed to you like this? And having done so, why do you want to pull away now?
The truth is you never think by standing in my place, that's why you don't understand, or you understand but pretend not to. You deliberately cause me pain. Do you really enjoy doing this to me? Then who else am I to speak with? I love you, you are everything to me, so why should I speak anywhere else?
The way I speak with you, I could never speak that way with anyone else, nor would I. So where else am I to go, tell me? Why did you indulge me day after day like that, if you can't give me refuge now? You've had enough fun tormenting me, now just give me one call! When, after how much more waiting will you call me? I can't bear it anymore, please, call me. Speak to me tenderly. Love me. Please, my heart-bird!
You are mine mine mine. If anyone else ever comes near you, I'll kill them, I'm telling you now. No one but me can call you 'beloved,' no one but me can place both hands on your chest and hold you tight in an embrace, no one but me can ever caress your entire body to their heart's content, no one but me can kiss your lips, no one but me can call you beloved, heart-bird, golden-bird, precious-gold, mynah-bird, birdie—none of these names! You are only my beloved, my beloved alone, my heart-bird alone, no one else's, never, never, never!
Only I alone will love my beloved, all the tenderness my beloved-bird needs, I alone will give, only I will hold my beloved-bird to my chest and kiss them, only I will call my beloved 'beloved,' only I will be able to scold my beloved as I please, no one else, no one, no one at all! My beloved will caress only me, will discipline only me, will scold only me, will love only me.
If anyone else comes to claim what is mine, I will truly kill them. If necessary, I will die myself afterward! When I need to cry, I alone will go to my beloved's chest and weep there. Whatever I wish, whatever I desire, I will do with my darling bird. You are my love alone. My very own, my very own, my very own love you are!
When I cannot speak with you, I go mad, yet you do not understand this at all. If I were to suddenly vanish, would you remain the same even then? Why do you render the one who loves you so helpless? Or is it that love doesn't truly exist at all—that everything is merely emotion? I don't understand all these complexities like you do; you know everything better, you know! I only understand that without you I cannot live—I simply cannot!
Two. Where can I flee from this life, tell me? Don't you know that one cannot escape even when one wishes to? The moment I close my eyes, your face appears before me. It feels as though your warm breath comes and crashes upon my face. I don't want to forget, yet I never try to remember either, still my entire day passes thinking only of you. When I go to sleep at night, your words hum in my ears; I turn this way, turn that way and lie down, thinking I won't think of you anymore. I try to think of something else, someone else, some other unfulfillment, some other joy, I try to think of many other things, hoping to find some respite from thoughts of you. But somehow, everything circles back to you. Even in the haze of sleep, in dreams, I hear your voice, I can hear you speaking with me.
I'm afraid to close my eyes these days, lest you come! I don't close my eyes; I hide my face in book pages and read, nodding off to sleep. My head feels like it's floating in emptiness, swaying constantly, yet I'm terrified of the pillow—terrified to lay my head on the pillow. It feels as though you are entwined even with my pillow. Conscious or unconscious, you are everywhere; as if nothing exists anywhere without you. Everything else in my life is false without you. I never knew before how love could make a person like an uncomprehending child. I understand everything, yet it feels like my heart refuses to accept it—I don't want to understand anything! I only want to understand this: that without you I have become immobile. How many times I've said I won't go, won't go, yet couldn't keep my face turned away even after turning it away—this only my Creator and I know.
Since yesterday afternoon I haven't been able to lift my head; I don't know why, my head just keeps spinning, when I try to stand I get dizzy and fall. I'm trying very hard to forget you, not to bring thoughts of you to mind, trying hard to keep myself well. I want to work, so much work, but when I can't even get up from bed, what else can I do to keep myself busy? You fill my entire brain, my whole heart, my soul is so woven together with yours that even if I wanted to, I cannot separate myself from there.
I want to stay well, I want to forget you.
When I die, I want to die in a single day, in a single moment—but this death that comes with every moment, I do not want. Why won't my words stop? When I don't speak to you, the words torment my mind and keep tormenting, they won't let me be at peace, I thrash about like a madman unable to tell you these words. I feel as if my head will tear open and all the words will come pouring out right now. I want to go outside, I think perhaps if I spend some time with friends I might forget you, if only for a while! But I cannot even get up from bed!
You asked me for peace, peace came before love for you—I gave you that peace. Whatever else I may or may not have been able to give, I brought you peace, even at the cost of my life. Your peace comes first for me, your happiness is paramount to me. I want to adjust to everything else, but why can't I manage it?
These past few days I haven't cried much; I have wept, but little, I've tried to suppress the tears, because the Creator has taken away my capacity to cry. The joy that comes from weeping freely, crying out loud—even that joy my Creator has snatched from me. Now I can no longer weep; if I cried, something terrible would have happened by now, I would have fallen ill much sooner. So I try to swallow my tears, to gulp down these sobs.
I haven't gotten caught up in any anxiety, yet why can't I get up from this bed? Why does my mind remain so restless? I truly don't know. I want to stay well, if I'm to live then I want to live as one should live. Otherwise I have no fear of dying. But I want freedom from this torment of every moment. I suffer greatly without you—perhaps if death came right now, I would escape this suffering of death itself. Everyone refuses to die in order to live, but I want to die only so that I might live!
Thought: Seven Hundred and Forty-Eight

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Is there any law that says your child must become exactly like you?

Many famous people's children have not turned out like their parents — so what?

If someone is a thief or a dacoit, would you want their child to become a thief or dacoit too?

Just as not all doctors' children become doctors, there are many doctors whose children have indeed followed in their footsteps.
What the child will become seems less important than whether the sense of humanity within the child remains intact. I have seen many parents who had little formal education, or studied only to a certain point, yet raised their children with immense patience, love, and affection, turning them into good human beings. I have also seen cases where both parents hold excellent positions, but their child is so uncouth, ill-mannered, and unethical that it defies description.
I don't know what you really mean when you keep repeating that a child must become like their parents! Let me say something else. If you raise a child with love and affection, whatever else may happen, they will at least become a good human being — isn't that enough?
The more you try to project yourself as great before your child, the more you create an invisible wall within them. Your child's greatest identity is that they are your child. If they can then surpass you, another identity of yours will be revealed through your child. You might even gain recognition as a good father. But does that make you superhuman? If you are in a very good position, it simply means you have utilized yourself well. If your child cannot utilize themselves well, how much can you really achieve despite all your external efforts? And when you say that so-and-so's child didn't turn out like so-and-so, you're actually throwing down an invisible challenge to your child to become like you. Is this logical?
You may have read that those who come through us are not really our children — they are children of this world. The world will either shape them according to its needs or destroy them — and that too serves a purpose. I think it's a great blessing if our children don't turn out like us, because otherwise, considering that in this world the number of inhumane people far exceeds the number of virtuous ones, imagine what would happen if all their children followed in their fathers' footsteps!
I believe there are two things in this world — no matter how much they may be to our liking — that we should never take pride in: our children and our life partners. At any time, at any moment, these two people can completely transform, like two sides of a coin. Just as people cannot choose their parents, is it a crime to let children live the lives they prefer? I came alone, I will leave alone — I must. Even if there is life after death, on that side too, one must bear the consequences of one's own actions. If that's the case, then what difference does it make who is my child and who is someone else's? And if there's nothing like that, then who are you to prevent a child from living their life by turning them into your puppet and trying to mold their life according to your wishes? How much have you yourself lived according to your parents' desires?
Even if you were to become like your father, whatever else might happen, if you were then to become a very good but different person, would we still have received the you of today? Since the answer is 'no,' what does it matter how we react to children—however they turn out, good or bad, like you or better than you or your complete opposite? Just as a good father doesn't become bad after death if he leaves behind a bad child, can a bad father shed the burden of his misdeeds by leaving behind a good child?
To parents, a child may not be such a monumental thing, but to the child, parents are something far, far greater. For can you escape the responsibility of the child to whom you have handed existence? You may have abundance, but what is its value if it serves the child in no way? What would you have done if your father, instead of educating you, had put you to work copying deeds in a clerk's office? Where you have arrived—some credit belongs to your father, some to yourself, the rest perhaps to fate. I don't know if you believe in the Creator, but do you believe in fate? Or do you believe only in hard work? Then go, try your hand at farming and see what happens! Or what's wrong with cricket practice—you have good stamina!
Why don't you try taking on just the responsibility that your father fulfilled toward you—just that much responsibility, properly discharged? Let the rest be left to the child. If good and bad, honest and dishonest must all merge with that same earth, then why all this accounting? After death, what has happened, what is happening—who has seen those who have died through the ages? What if your child doesn't like everything about you? Will they then give you examples of other fathers—is that what you want? How much will you acknowledge your inadequacy? Are you aware that by constantly comparing yourself with your child, you're already pushing them toward the edge of a deep pit? Will you be able to say at life's end that you managed to be a good father for as long as you lived?
Finally, perhaps if you simply think of your child as just another human being, these conflicts might leave your mind. Nothing I've said so far has satisfied my heart. I don't know why it feels like so much remains unsaid.
Everything in my life that seems beautiful to your eyes—all of it I learned from being with you. No one else ever taught me anything, or what was taught would never have allowed me to live with love for humanity. That despite everything I can still love people—this is somehow a teaching you gave me. As days pass, the world around me takes on an ever more terrible form, and my trials become ever more difficult. I don't know if I'll be defeated, but I keep trying simply to survive. As far as I can tell, as far as I can see, as far as I understand—you're determined to make a renunciant of me!
Thought: Seven Hundred Forty-Nine

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One. Suppose you're going somewhere far away for a trip. If you somehow found out that the bus you're taking is mechanically defective, or that the bus driver is drunk, or physically ill—would you knowingly board such a bus?

Even if the bus is fine, accidents can happen on the journey, you might die—yet before boarding the bus you naturally assume you won't die, because you want to believe this from your mind's strength, experience, and faith.

Would you take a job where on the very first day you're told you won't be paid any salary, but occasionally, if they feel like it or if it's possible, they'll give you some honorarium? Would you take such a job?

Or would you knowingly marry a barren woman?

Commitment is essential in any relationship. If you can't give commitment, or don't want to, it means you're in a state of uncertainty and it could change at any time. Yes, something good might happen, but usually in such cases the negative occurs more often. I love you, so I won't get involved with anyone else—I've made that decision. I haven't dishonored you in any way. If I get involved elsewhere right now, it would mean I've only shared my loneliness with you. That's not called love.

We love the people around us even without their knowing, but that love is somewhat different from the love between us two. If you love me just like the people around you, then that's a different matter. When I speak to you of death, I do so for this reason—because I cannot stay distant from you; living that way is equivalent to death for me. Maybe I'm managing now, but after a few years this will go beyond my limits of endurance. I'll start tormenting you then. Wouldn't it be better to die now instead? Just as you would be freed if you died, if I die I too would be freed from all this agony. This is the only way to escape and survive.

For two days nothing has pleased me, because since getting involved with you in this relationship, I've never behaved so badly before. But it pains me to live this way—what should I do, tell me? I've told you it's impossible for me to leave you, yet accepting all this from you, perhaps I won't be able to do anything as before. But that doesn't mean I'm leaving you.

I've actually fallen into an unprepared situation. I won't leave you, because I can never again adjust with anyone else. I know myself well enough—I no longer have the patience to get involved in any relationship, whatever kind it may be—but perhaps I won't be able to hold you tightly as before either. I don't know, but somehow everything seems to have ended!

Two. I had a room where going there would make all my weariness disappear.

I had a place of trust where I could leave all my belongings with eyes closed.

I thought I had found the person closest to me in my life.

I had someone of supreme respect, whom somewhere I had placed above even my parents.

Last night all of that broke apart.

At this moment I have nowhere to go.
Because perhaps there is no place on this earth that could fill my emptiness, where going would heal my wounds.
Yet I no longer want any refuge, not ever, not on any day. Perhaps it's no longer possible for me to return to a normal life.
Three. When you tell someone who wants nothing more than friendship "I love you," quite often even the friendship is lost. There are many people who, when you see them, seem as though they want love, though what they actually want is friendship. They perhaps want to maintain friendship, nothing more than that. But the other person wants something more than friendship. Then they continue acting as if they're giving more than friendship, for the sake of keeping the relationship alive. At some point misunderstandings begin; and then, even the friendship ends! There's no point in trying to force love; it's far better to preserve whatever warmth friendship offers.