Thoughts in Bonsai: Two Hundred Twelve

One. No one in this life has ever given me flowers.
You alone did.

In this life I have never placed flowers on anyone's grave.
Only on yours.

How much alike we two are, isn't that so?

Two. : Why are you afraid of me?
: Because you love me.
: Why don't you love me?
: Because I'm afraid of you.

Three. Is unemployment, then, the birthplace of love?

Four. Having no one beside you is not loneliness.
Not being able to tell anyone the words stored in your heart—that is loneliness.

The person beside you and the person in your mind are not the same.

Five. Stay hidden,
live fully!

Six. : You really don't watch TV?
: No, I don't.
: That's a good thing.
: It's neither good nor bad, it's just a personal thing. If it were a good thing, then we'd have to call some people's harmless preferences bad for no reason. That makes no sense.

Seven. It's fun to fight with someone
who has the strength to fight alone.

Eight. When you say to someone what needn't be said,
even from those who should cause no pain,
you end up getting hurt.

Nine. Some are lovers of love,
others lovers of peace.

Ten. Money diminishes patience.

Eleven. My entire sky is covered over...
with misunderstandings.

Twelve. The one who once freely gave roses,
today I can't even get their thorns by weeping!

Thirteen. One whose heart has not yet broken
has not yet known the world.

Fourteen. Everything can be said easily...
except the essential things.

Fifteen. : I miss you all the time.
: How so?
: It's like a sweet breeze. You can feel it, but can't quite explain it.

Sixteen. It's good to be hurt sometimes by the one you love. It keeps the purity of your love intact.

Seventeen. All enemies have become former.
All lovers have become former.

Can there be a greater emptiness than this?
What shall I live for today?

Eighteen. Throw away what serves no purpose.
Those who cling to what serves no purpose—they are the ones who suffer.

Nineteen. First step to long-term mental peace: reduce emotion and love.

Twenty. Most of us lack the courage to call a poet a poet; we think poets are cowards and cowards are poets!