Time is that which naturally tends toward decay. As my teacher once said: destiny has no fixed form; only when observed does its shape appear. The “double-slit” experiment of Western science speaks precisely to this. Enlightened by these words, I regularly examine myself—perhaps as a way to ward off the collapse of the mind.
Yet, looking into the mirror, even adorned with makeup, I find no self-satisfaction. Looking back at the past, I always feel things fell short of perfection. I often tell myself I could have achieved the ideal, yet I constantly fail to meet my own expectations. Caught between these two extremes, I ultimately gain nothing, and my heart aches with bitterness.
I have drifted toward the shadow side of my projected self—the dark side of the moon, as it were. Though in the long run this may prove a beneficial crucible, at this very moment, the pain is truly beyond words.
I wish to sing at the top of my lungs, to cry out to the heavens, to watch plays, to perform on stage, to wander by the sea for a month, to lose myself in deep forests and dense mountains. Of course, one need not generalize; these desires could be pursued one by one, from the easiest to the most daunting. Yet I worry that such release may not bring true liberation, but instead feed a desire for utter self-abandonment.
I do not know.
Waking early this morning, I caught sight of the rosy dawn. By the time I threw on my coat and stepped outside, the sun had already risen, and the morning glow had vanished. Truly, the threshold between night and day is the most enchanting of times. In this hazy twilight of waking, finding calm and rational composure is no easy task.