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# Thought 778
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**One.** Where is happiness? In love, or indifference? In obedience, or power? In pride, or humility? In inquiry, or faith? In renown, or obscurity? In poverty, or abundance? In ambition, or surrender? It seems to me that happiness dwells in the sweetness of good feeling, bestowed with no thought of return. Or, to speak more precisely: our happiness consists in sensing the happiness of others, generously summoned into being by our own hand.
**Two.** I wish I could tell you: live as though you know death comes soon, and die as though you’ve lived rightly.
Friendship has meaning only if it draws heaven nearer to us, only if it opens heaven’s threshold here and now.
If I should die before you, I don’t think heaven will astonish me—for in being your friend, I’ve already tasted a piece of it.
**Three.** I cannot tell you who I am. It’s strange, isn’t it? I know well enough, yet the words won’t come. I’m afraid most of all to speak it, because the moment language touches it, I don’t merely express what I feel—I feel myself slowly becoming what I say.
I am as you perceive me. I can be light as the breeze or strong as the wind; it depends on when and how you witness me moving.
Don’t hand me ready-made answers, for I don’t always expect to arrive at one. Don’t show me what you demand of me—I’ll follow my heart regardless. Don’t remake me into something false. Don’t ask me to stay the same, because I am, truthfully, always changing. I don’t know how to love by halves. I don’t know how to live a lie. I don’t know how to walk while flying. I am always myself, but know this: I won’t remain the same forever.
**Four.** We’re watchers of stars… and dreamers… perhaps only fools.
We weep behind shut doors, though the world stands wide open.
We pound on the other side, begging for a scrap of hope.
We shed tears and sweat from our faces—those small, salt-stained paths.
Yet we cannot see the sun’s brightness or smell the air… freely.
It’s as if we’re afraid of happiness itself.
As if only suffering has carved itself into our hearts and minds.
But… if not for hope… what would we dream of?
**Five.** There are many beautiful and remarkable places in the world, upon which man or mighty nature has left an indelible and wondrous mark. Yet there are places that call forth less abundance of our praise, and often prove more beautiful and harmonious than all the rest. I, too, know a corner of this world to which I return, where I discovered grace and felt the power of Mother Nature’s hand.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
Here the legends and faces of the ancient gods come alive.
The small pond, above which rises a grey-blue rock, sits in a gently rolling meadow, ringed by dark and towering forest. From the rock to the water’s surface tumbles a series of cascades born from the earth’s depths, like silvery locks of hair falling from the god of streams himself. Upon the gently undulating surface, water lilies drift and sway, their blooms burning like red-pink candles in the fierce heat of summer. A few coconut palms lean toward the shore, gazing down into the dark blue mirror as if to glimpse their own visage traced by the sun’s golden fingers—or perhaps to catch sight of a mermaid dwelling in those depths.
Thousands of meadow flowers in every hue unfold across the nearby grass, where hundreds of butterflies enact their dances of courtship. And he who watches closely will find himself dancing too—dancing with rainbow-winged butterflies and the small flower fairies in that languid afternoon breeze that trembles through each blade of grass. The grasshoppers steal the dance, while from the nearby thickets, forest birds sing them their accompaniment.
As day surrenders to dusk and the west ignites in crimson, shadows slip forth from the trees and settle upon the green grass in a peculiar semicircle. Perhaps this was once a monastery of ancient and terrible wizards and priests, where they practiced their renunciation and their arts. In those last rays, when the sun yields its dominion to night and stars kindle this hallowed ground, all sound ceases—a profound silence descends. But it is only seeming silence. To one who listens truly, the lake’s water will sing, and the trees and stones will speak in whispers. They tell stories old and long forgotten—tales of what once transpired here, what men have ceased to remember. And each time I hear their voices, I feel the sacred power of this place flooding through me, pouring peace, strength, and harmony into mind and body alike.
Human imagination knows no bounds. From the simplest of places—a cottage, a forest, a pond—it can conjure a corner of the world whose image inscribes itself upon our hearts. And each time we return, we discover something new, something extraordinary.
**ভাবনা: সাতশো ঊনআশি**
—
**One.** Beauty surrounded everything. Wherever the eye traveled, nature displayed her loveliness. It was that turning-time between spring and summer. Green lay everywhere; everything bloomed and burst into flower. The sun warmed the skin with its gentle caress. A soft wind brought with it a sense of renewal and vitality. Birds from all corners held their great concert. Crickets vied in their chirping, calling out to one another in contest. Butterflies fluttered their wings, gliding smooth and tender through the air. She stood upon a hill. Below her, broad fields spread out, with slopes rising here and there. Nothing but meadows, and forests scattered at intervals. Soft white clouds drifted peacefully across the unblemished sky, far removed from the sun’s majestic and radiant countenance.
Somewhere beneath it were grazing deer, near the glistening surface of the pond.
She savoured the look with a full tinge. She smelled the smell, she felt the warmth, she let herself get through the beauty. She saw, she felt, she was. She became part of the beauty. At that moment, nothing bothered her.
Suddenly, rhythmic and melodic music began to approach. She stood and listened, she watched, she was. The music was getting louder. She was in the middle of the crowd, singing, playing, celebrating. Suddenly she was singing too, living music, perceived, was…
It was beautiful, the intoxication, the belonging… and all of a sudden it was all gone, and all that was left was sadness and loneliness. She was alone in the middle of the wide world. There was music in her head. Appealing, soothing, full of desire… She was all over the place, she was in it. Suddenly she was the music. There’s nothing left of her. Just quiet, whispering music full of desire, sadness and vain hope…
Two. And what about us? We’re just trailing a fleeting dream, microphone at our lips, screaming it out into the world. With a pencil, we inscribe it into the world and render it in pictures. Sometimes we cry it into the sea, sometimes into the river. That depends on who has ever made a living from it.
And we don’t have expensive clothes, so we stand rapt at the window and speak of the day we’ll walk inside.
What else—what else are we? Just wandering artists. With rivals all around us. And others have already gone, you know. And others are falling. We fall—if we fall together. We rise—if we rise on the same page. Hand in hand. Because we are friends.
If I lose a sentence, I’ll find it in a picture, and if the painting falls silent, the music will cry out through my mouth. And I see you in music. In the words you’ve placed within me. And then we’ll gather, and with this “shield” we’ll simply move forward…
Three. “To be free, you must see the truth,” the father said to his daughter with a smile. She pondered.
“But how do I know what truth is?” she asked.
“Many lies are needed to conceal a single truth, for truth is immutable and indestructible—it is the foundation of being, the ground upon which our entire world is built. Lies sustain themselves, for they cannot exist without human faith to prop them up. Lies infest the mind and cloud your judgment—so always look with your heart, child, only then will truth remain always clear and unmistakable.”
“When you speak that way, it feels right to me, yet I don’t understand your words,” the daughter said, troubled. The father laughed.
“There—you see? You are looking with your heart!” he cried out.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
“You don’t have to understand words—they’re merely a means of communication, and I cannot pour everything I feel into them. Words are chiefly weapons of deception, for they stifle the voice of your heart. That’s why it’s so arduous to impart truth to another—one must live it, must feel its weight upon the bones. But do not lower your gaze, little one. Once truth enters you, it becomes simple to know it from its shadow. Truth will be your sword of liberation, your touchstone, your anchor when lies come rushing at you.”
“Is there no other way to find it?”
“My child, you’ll soon discover there is no path simpler or more trustworthy than this: the ordinary stirring of your own feeling. Truth surrounds you—you need only allow it to speak. You possess everything required, here.” Father pressed his hand to his heart. “You needn’t strain or grasp, for effort itself is the mark of falsehood. You need only cease searching for truth—and then, you will find it.”
The daughter smiled at last. “I think I know how to do this…”
—
**চার।** The Past: All that is belongs to me. Everything is fixed and certain. You’re merely uncertain, wavering, unstable!
The Future: I am all that dreams will one day become. I’m hope itself, and you’re nothing but a grave!
The Present stirs and murmurs: What a dreadful dream! Pure fracture of mind…!!!
—
**ভাবনা: সাতশো আশি**
**এক।** I think often of my life, how I’ve crossed paths with those who’ve wandered across my horizon.
Deliberate meetings, chance encounters, the unforeseen—all have tempered me for this game called living. Life comes to me as a bright, rolling sphere on the felt of existence, a kaleidoscope unfolding day after day. I feel the joy of it more deeply with each turn.
Like billiard balls—rolling forward and back, colliding, redirecting one another, some grazing, some falling into darkness, others arcing gracefully through space, some kissing with artful precision, others striking with violent force—so too is my life woven with those I share this game with.
I recall friends from childhood, from school, from work, the bright moments and the difficult ones. Everyone who has ever brushed against me and left the mark of their being, even those who merely stood beside me—all who’ve shaped and continue shaping this game of mine—they fill me with a quiet gratitude, a joy that settles deep.
I love to play! Life has offered me countless moves and stages, and this wild whisper on the screen keeps propelling me forward, ever forward.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
And when the last black ball vanishes into the dimple and the white sphere stands solitary in the bright triumph of victory, even then the game does not conclude—a new foundation is laid in a three-dimensional cosmos, and the game persists through millions of permutations of spinning spheres.
Each of us is one—the sovereign white ball which, whether it claims victory or falls away, remains forever essential to an endless game. It is a story without terminus. The game *is* life itself.
## Two
An elderly tortoise, long the secretary of a local bank, passed away one day. The animals therefore resolved to hold auditions for this demanding and responsible post.
Yet only two candidates presented themselves: the first was an ungainly but honest and dependable toad. She had dwelt in the town for many years, knowing well whom to trust and whom to shun. She possessed wit and acuity, and surely all the animals would have revered her for her character—but because the toad was decidedly plain, they gave her no voice, paid her no mind at all.
The second contender for the finest position (and most lucrative post) in town was a magnificent peacock, accompanied by his accomplice—a cunning fox. Both had arrived in town only recently; no one knew them, nor their true nature, yet the animals wagered upon first impressions and the peacock’s splendid façade and chose them instead. And so it came to pass that the position fell to those two, who dealt only in hollow promises, rather than to the aging, homely toad who bore in her heart only the welfare and genuine wishes of her townsfolk.
The toad had even cautioned them against entrusting such delicate matters to those they scarcely knew. But do you imagine anyone heeded her? They merely laughed at her stupidly.
Meanwhile, the cunning fox counseled the peacock to gather as much wealth as possible from the animals, so that they might enrich themselves beyond measure. The peacock hesitated at first, but eventually he consented.
So all the animals deposited their savings into the bank and already anticipated the generous interest they would receive. Only one creature regarded the peacock and fox with lingering suspicion—the very toad who had steadfastly refused to entrust her money to those two scoundrels she could never trust.
And then, one bitter morning, the animals discovered with horror that the peacock and fox had vanished—along with their money! They wept as though the earth itself had collapsed upon them. The wretched animals knew not how they would survive and lamented their terrible error. Only the toad laughed and said, “You see? You see? You looked only at beauty and charm, and see where it has brought you now!”
—
**Thought: Seven Hundred and Eighty-One**
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## One
Consider this: the life that death does not end anything.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
What is the meaning of life, truly? Why do we exist? Perhaps it is all coincidence—we drift in a reality without future, unchanging and fixed.
By chance, I mean the convergence of circumstances, the meeting of place and time. Is everything unfolding as it was meant to? Is life merely a vast stage? Perhaps we are here by predestination, or perhaps we possess the power to alter our existence, yet perhaps it is too late. We are actors upon this stage, unable to rewrite the script as we wish. Sometimes a glitch enters the program—enters our lives. *This* is what occupies my thinking. Something might shift, but everything concludes the same way. A play of courtesies, a life of dying.
The actors depart the stage. But what comes after? Rest, or another turning of the wheel? Was life given to me as punishment or gift? Had I never been born, I would have felt nothing. But I *am* here. I *am* alive. I have met many. Some I have wounded, some have wounded me. Yet one—only one—has given me strength to fight, to endure, to stand always in the shelter of open arms where I feel most wholly protected. Were it not for work, I might never have known her: the woman who is not merely my favorite person on this earth, but my true teacher. She remains beside me. She knows how to help me. She does too much for me. I do not know how to repay her.
Words fall short. Deeds cannot match the worth of what moves me when I am at my lowest. I can only be grateful. Nothing matters more. This woman is the finest among all. Were I given life again, were I to remember this life across a new birth, I would not trade her for all the world.
Many speak of safety as home. I find it in her shadow—in the sacrifice of a woman who means everything to me.
We met by accident. I was meant to be elsewhere. I was troubled with my life. Our friendship was born from a side-event, a moment when certain words fell into my soul—words that need never have been spoken at all. Yet I am grateful they were, for they became my fate. A few coincidences were enough. That heartbeat still echoes, even now. As vowed, death shall not separate us.
By reason, I conclude: life is coincidence, our shared destiny. I do not believe death ends life. Quite the opposite. It is a fresh beginning. The beginning of the end. This is why I do not fear death.
I’m afraid of life and its blows. The wounds that hurt and will hurt forever, that I receive, heal slowly. They may fade in time with the helping hand of friends—though I don’t believe it—but the scar will remain, permanent as memory itself.
—
**Two.** Love, there is so much I wish to tell you, but you know I cannot speak properly, and I always become entangled in the attempt. So this is how it will all come out at once.
Let me begin at the beginning. Before I met you, I was the element itself—wild, unbound, free.
The first time I saw you, I didn’t know you would change everything. I liked you at once. You were fine. And then—that look. Your magical eyes. I didn’t think I’d see you again. But I did. Our first meeting. We understood each other. I cannot even express what I felt in that moment after our first meeting (there I go again, failing at expression). I felt drawn to see you again, intrigued by you.
On the second date, you took my hand. In that instant, I only wanted to be with you. You know, suddenly I began to care about something. About *you*. It wasn’t that I was simply looking for a weekend’s diversion, some fleeting pleasure—no. I woke each morning thinking perhaps I would see you. You were my inspiration.
Then, when I knew I wanted to be with you always, I grew afraid. I didn’t know how you saw it. But then I’d be happy, believing you saw it the same way.
It’s difficult to classify what we are. Sometimes still, sometimes alive. Sometimes wordless, sometimes filled with laughter. It’s beautiful—unbelievable, how I feel about you. How time moves in your presence. You are extraordinary. The way you can captivate me.
When we laugh together, when we play, when we simply text.
When I lie beside you and could look at you forever.
You’re my wish, my angel. You are so close to me.
I think we can do anything together. You and I. You remain beside me.
You can tell me what I need to hear.
I love your touch, your gaze, your words, your gestures!
I didn’t believe I could be who I am.
That I could love like this.
That I would want only one person.
That I would give up everything just to feel you near.
That I could forget all else and simply live the moments.
I don’t know how you did it. I don’t understand it. But one thing I know for certain: I love you. And if you left now, I couldn’t return to how I was before. You’ve given me this. You’re giving me the strength to live. You’re giving me the energy to endure the days until I’m with you again.
You changed me, and I know—*I know*—I don’t want to be the way I was before.
# Thought 782
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**One.** I don’t dive in the same river twice.
Well, that’s been a truth for ages.
But I go fishing in the same river all the time.
Well, that’s been a tragedy for ages.
**Two.** I think about falling in love constantly. So I’ve cooked up some ideas about it in my head. Falling in love is the most beautiful thing in life. It becomes almost an addictive substance—afterward, a person feels filled with happiness, feels bliss, feels attractive, desirable. It’s rather hard to fall in love. There’s nothing weightier. When it finally happens to you, it comes with two faces—good, bad.
When we fall in love, we go blind. Our thoughts circle only around the beloved, and we wish they would circle around us the same way. We can’t focus on anything else. If that person loves us back, we float in seventh heaven. But if it’s the other way around, we feel a great pain in our hearts. Indescribable!
We see the beloved through rose-tinted glasses, but the feeling worsens as you fall deeper in love with them gradually. What I mean is—at first you don’t want them very much, you notice their faults, and then gradually you stop seeing them at all.
Sometimes it works the opposite way. You see nothing at first, then you start seeing the mistakes, and the relationship withers until it dies slowly. So the question becomes: what happens when you feel nothing at first and then fall in love gradually?
Because we want our feelings healed, because we fear rejection and loss, we perceive everything around us much more intensely, and we also burden our surroundings with the desperate need to constantly talk about each other.
Unfortunately, love and infatuation aren’t always about happiness. Sometimes, instead of joy and delight, pain arrives. Often it’s irritation; we grow tired, aggressive, depressed. At night we suffer from insomnia and restlessness. We fear what the future holds. We lose our appetite, stop enjoying life, avoid others, and feel disgust toward other relationships for a long time.
We’re hurting ourselves, and there’s no remedy.
Of course, that’s not true. Because we are in love, and there are more meetings ahead. Even before this, we lived beautifully without that person. No one will fall in love with us if we frown at the world. We won’t meet anyone that way.
**Three.** It matters to me that you know how I feel before you go. When I see you, I can’t say everything the way I want to, so I’d rather write to you.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
The first time I saw you, I fell in love with you. From the moment you first kissed me, I belong only to you. And so, as incredible as it seems, I’ve never slept with anyone else. I need you. You’re not just the most amazing lover to me, you’re a great friend, and my first ever love.
I’ve figured out that nothing has the right meaning without you, and I’m really sick of feeling like I might lose you. I know I’m not perfect, but I honestly love you. I’ve never been as good with anyone as I am with you. It’s not important that you’re not in front of me if you still want me, and you like me a little. I believe so, so please don’t leave me alone.
If I’ve ever done anything to hurt you, I’m very sorry, and I’m deeply sorry. But believe me, I never meant to cause you the slightest pain. I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you.
I wish you would be happy in a way that is possible and swift—I wish you would desire an expressway toward achievements that are not utopian but real, that you would want simple things like an iced drink after running or an embrace when you return home, that you would desire with discernment and with well-chosen aims.
But I also wish that you wish boldly, that you covet dreams placed just beyond reach, and that knowing them nearly impossible, you do not let trouble weigh you down, but keep them alight, free of bitterness, desire with fancy and courage, staying alert to both the casualties and miracles, to the unknowable in life, where secret longings are sometimes granted.
I want you to want to work better, to love with fewer chains binding you, to want to stop smoking, to want to travel far away and wish to return to your own corner, I wish you would want to grow, and that you desire both weeping and silence, for through them we are remade, I wish you would have the courage to see yourself more plainly.
But I also wish you an unbounded joy, that you want more friends—not necessarily best friends, just good companions for sport and conversation, that you want books as much as temples, that your hunger for light is genuine, that you want to listen to the stories of others, that you wish to believe in them—in the coming-and-seeing of what is certain and uncertain, that you wish not to be trapped by so many fixed desires, that the greatest desire becomes peaceful coexistence with others who desire different things.
I wish you would desire some change—a change that is necessary and does not crush your soul. Though changes are feared, there is no other fuel for this crossing.
I want you to desire a whole year of many well-closed months, that nothing is left undone, and I wish, mainly, that you wish, that you will allow yourself to wish because the desire is vigorous and free, the desire is innocent, do not suppress your hidden requests, I wish you to desire victories, romances, favourable diagnoses, more money and various feelings, but I wish, first, that you wish, simply.
Thought: Seven Hundred Eighty-Three
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One. You are the toys you played with, the slang you spoke, you are the nerve endings of flowers in your inner ear, the secrets you kept close, you are your favourite beach or hill, you are born again from the accident that you escaped, that love which stunned you into living, the serious conversation you had one day with your father, you are what you remember.
You are the longing you feel for your mother, the dream left unfinished almost at the altar, the childhood you hold in memory, the pain of work undone, of words unspoken when the moment was there, you are what was severed from the past, the stirring of a passage from a book, the street scene that tore open your tears, you are what you weep.
You are the unexpected embrace, the strength you gave to a friend in need, you are the chair that bristles with presence, the sensitivity that cries out, the affection that flows between, you are the words spoken to comfort, the cries unlocked from deep in the throat, the pieces you knead together, you are the orgasm, the laughter, the kiss, you are what you reveal.
You are the anger at what you failed to achieve, the helplessness of what you could not change, you are the disdain for what preoccupies others, the disappointment with the state of things, the hatred that all this kindles, you are the one who speaks out, who despite exhaustion refuses to surrender, you are the indignation at rubbish cast from a car window, the burning of your revolt, you are what you burn with.
You are what you are, what you manage to bring forth through your truth and your struggle, you are the rights you possess, the duties you bear, you are the road you run down, seeking, winding, searching, you are what you plead for.
You are not merely what you consume and what you wear. You are what you require, gather, sketch, bring forth, relish and read. You are what no one sees.
Two. Even the most steadfast of men and the most assured of women have known a moment of hesitation, seized by enormous doubts—or perhaps doubts too small to even deserve the name.
A faltering, better to say. Should I go to this dinner, even though I know the hostess barely knows me? Should I withdraw that money from the bank, or would that be madness? Should I send an email apologizing for my neglect? Right now, we need only a small push.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
And it is to the pushers that I dedicate this chronicle, to all those who witness the confusion of others and say: go ahead!
“Thank you for insisting that I paint, that I write, that I act, thank you for perceiving in me a talent that my self-criticism would never allow developing.”
“Thank you for insisting that I go visit my father in the hospital, I wouldn’t forgive myself if I hadn’t seen him and spoken to him one last time, I wouldn’t have gone if I continued to be governed only by my web and pride.”
“Thank you for insisting that I know Sylhet, otherwise I would forever be running away from tourist places considering myself very smart, and with that, I would have stopped knowing the most surreal and charming city that my eyes have ever seen.”
“Thank you for insisting that I take the exam, so that I would not be a coward in the face of my frailties, only then could I discover what I bring in my body to treat it in time. If it wasn’t for you, I would have let this lump grow around my neck and swallow me in fear and all.”
“Thank you for insisting that I come back to you, so I can stop being a teenager and accept life for two, a family, a serenity that I did not suspect. I didn’t know I loved you so much and that I had given you good clues about it, how did you know before me?”
“Thank you for insisting that I leave you so that I would go on with my life, thank you for your confidence that we would be better friends than lovers, I was stuck in a social condition that I thought favoured me, but nothing favours me more than this freedom for which you, who know me better than myself, presented me as a way out.”
“Thank you for insisting that I don’t go to that party, I couldn’t have put up with seeing the two of you together, I wouldn’t have put up with it, I wouldn’t avoid another scandal, thank you for holding my hand and locking my door.”
“Thank you for insisting that I cut my hair, thank you for insisting that I dance with you, thank you for insisting that I go back to school, thank you for insisting that I take that test, thank you for insisting that I treat myself.”
In times when almost no one looks themselves in the eye, when most people are little interested in what does not concern them, only thanking those who perceive our disbelief, indecisions, suspicions, everything that paralyses us, and spend so little of their energy with us, leaves us insisting on life.
Thought: Seven Eighty-Four
………………………………………………………
**One.** Why do people come into your life?
People come into your life for a “Reason”, a “Season” or a “Whole Life”.
When you realize which one it is, you will know what to do for each person.
When someone enters your life for a “Reason”…it is usually to supply a need that you have demonstrated. They come to assist you in difficulty, provide you with guidance and support, help you physically, emotionally, or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend, and they are! They’re there for the reason you need them to be there. So without any wrong attitude on your part, or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring this relationship to an end. Sometimes these people die. Sometimes they just leave. Sometimes they act and force you to take a stand. What we must understand is that our needs have been met, our desires fulfilled, and their work is done. Your prayers have been answered. And now it’s time to go.
When people come into your lives for a “Season”, it’s because it’s your turn to divide, grow and learn. They bring you the experience of peace, or they make you laugh. They can teach you something you’ve never done. They usually give you a tremendous amount of pleasure… Believe! It’s real! But only for a season.
Relationships of a “Lifetime” teach you lifelong lessons: things you must build to have a solid emotional foundation. Your task is to accept the lesson, love the person, and put what you have learned into use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind, but friendship is clairvoyant. Tell your friend: Thank you for being a part of my life.
Stop here and just SMILE.
**দুই।**
How many times have you walked down the street and caught a whiff of perfume—and suddenly someone you cherish comes flooding back?
How many times have you gazed at a photograph of some landscape, yet never quite imagined yourself there… without them?
How many times have you stood beside someone, your body present but your mind elsewhere entirely?
Have you ever regretted something you said the moment the words left your lips—two seconds too late?
You must have seen that film—the one you two promised to watch together—come on television in some new form… and you froze, knowing that the sweetness of that shared moment has already slipped away.
And that song you can’t bear to hear because it resurrects something, someone, you’re desperate to forget but simply cannot?
Haven’t you known a day when everything crumbled, yet at the very last moment something miraculous unfolded?
Or that other day when everything aligned perfectly, right up until the very end, which shattered it all?
Have you ever wept remembering someone you loved, wishing desperately you could have told them—but couldn’t?
Have you ever found an old love again and realized they had become someone else entirely?
To these questions, there are countless answers…
But the thing about them—the truly important thing—is not the answer itself…
But the *feeling* it stirs.
We all love, we all stumble, we all misjudge…
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
We have all done one thing while our hearts whispered another.
So what is the moral in all of this?
Not everything unfolds as we envision—this much is certain. Therefore: do not dwell in the shadow of your weaknesses and failures. Do what you must to find happiness—*today*. Do not lay your head down with a wounded heart. Do not sleep without having brought some gladness to another soul. And begin your life with yourself.
**III.**
If you do not believe in what you are capable of, who else will? You might say there exists a right age, a right moment, a right place—but this is only half-truth. No such “right” exists in any absolute sense. What suffices is conviction: when you are certain of what you desire, and this certainty becomes inseparable from the undertaking itself.
But when does such a moment arrive? Picture a bridge spanning a river. You stand on one bank; your goal lies on the other. You believe—truly believe—that your fulfillment waits there. You cross. You embrace what you sought. You do not look back.
There will be trials. But if your faith in yourself runs deep, do not squander time deliberating—go. Do what calls to you. Now, if you are merely fleeing this shore without knowing where you wish to arrive, when the waters rise and the bridge trembles, you will find yourself stranded in its middle. Have you ever witnessed anyone standing midway through a bridge as it collapses? I have not.
It is never simple. When you have fixed your goal clearly in mind and summoned the courage to pursue it, remember this: certain details must crystallize in your thought. Obstacles will appear; conveniences will too. But if your belief holds firm, the troubles will lose their weight.
Do not surrender to despair. Be patient—at least for a time. Yes, between these moments lies the essential distinction:
**BURN THE BRIDGE BEFORE YOU CROSS IT.**
You begin to dream. Dream and dream again. Then, suddenly, a longing stirs—a desire for something finer, something more. Yet as you examine it honestly, you recognize that forces beyond your reach, circumstances immovable, stand between your gifts and this aspiration’s fulfillment.
Then I ask: is it worth the insistence? To make it plain: imagine someone yearning to dwell on the moon, yet present reality offers no passage. Do you pursue this dream, or do you let it go? You cannot remain in the kingdom of the moon, half-mad with longing. Burn the bridge before crossing it—release this dream and turn toward others that the earth permits.
**BURN THE BRIDGE AS YOU CROSS IT.**
Perhaps this has become clear, yet it bears reinforcement. Your wish to escape an unpleasant circumstance has merit—this is true. But you cannot know what lies beyond it; perhaps nothing better awaits at all. The lack of real prospect, the world constructed only in thought, carries you nowhere.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
You carry a conscience that demands you build better paths.
We live in an age where wandering without direction has become a luxury we cannot afford. Our future is not some inheritance waiting in another’s hands—we are its architects. There is no escape clause, no permission slip required. Begin where you stand.
**Burn the bridge once you have crossed it.**
For years, I observed those who had tasted success and those whom fortune had passed by. But observation alone teaches nothing without first answering: what is success, truly?
I have come to believe in its simplest form: success is the alignment of desire and action. It is doing what you love and loving what you do.
We construct ourselves within cultures of measure and accumulation, where success wears the face of possession. Yet here lies the tragedy—to own what you covet while remaining blind to the richness already in your hands. To be a miser in the midst of plenty.
Those who have truly succeeded are those who imagined their crossing with clear eyes, who took the steps both bold and deliberate, who met their distant shores and then—crucially—severed the rope behind them. They did not merely dream. They crossed. They arrived. And in that crossing, they discovered what living fully means.
Every aim worth pursuing is born from clarity: a precise vision of what one seeks, an honest measure of time’s limits, an acknowledgment of obstacles both within and without, an understanding of which hands might help or hinder, and finally—this is the measure that matters most—the depth of commitment one brings to the work itself.