The journey of life is like writing on the surface of water, drifting down the current. When we try to look back and search for the traces, they are always lost, for words written on water, no matter how hard we try, can never be eternal. If we attempt to linger in the happiness of the past, we only invite trouble; and whenever we recall suffering from memory, the pain is doubled.
The joys and pains, the joys and sorrows in the course of life are merely words written on water; they will inevitably flow away with time.
The body is like flowing water, never stopping day or night, causing us to age in its fleeting flow. The mind is like flowing water, never ceasing for a moment, causing us to live in a state of distraction.
Body and mind are both illusory, like writing on water. Before the second stroke is written, the first has already flowed far away.
Love is also like writing on water. When we say "love," the thought of love has already flowed to a distant place.
Beautiful love is a poem written on water, ordinary love is an official document written on water, and vows of love are like withered leaves occasionally drifting over the flow; when they fall, they always drift away silently.
Since we live on the water, let us flow naturally according to the conditions of the water. When we see flowers bloom, we know their conditions are fulfilled, allowing them to blossom; when we see leaves fall, we know their conditions are fulfilled, causing them to drop. Among strangers, we will always meet those with whom we share a karmic connection. When the connection ends, we will forget their names and faces like a dream, and they will vanish in the conditions like a single word written on water.
Why do we feel terror, fear, sorrow, and distress in our lives? It is because we only focus on the written words but forget that the words are written on a continuous stream of water. The plants on the water are arranged one after another, not looking back at each other but flowing with the current. Human suffering arises when the floating grass ahead misses the floating wood behind, and the bubble behind wants to look at the floating wood ahead. As long as we realize that words are written on water, we can be free from attachment, free from fear, and far from deluded dreams.
Amidst the surging waves and rapid whirlpools, does the one flowing downstream occasionally lift their head to discover that they are originally just a word on the water?
