Whenever I visit an unfamiliar city, it is my habit to wander about at random. Curiosity drives me to explore its bustling streets as well as its secluded corners. Along the way, I may occasionally lose my way temporarily, but I must maintain a sense of confidence in my mind, trusting that I can remember the route back to my accommodation; otherwise, I would feel uneasy. I believe life is much the same.
I only wish to preserve the original color of life—a purity that can quietly listen to other lives and also invites other lives to listen quietly. The joy found in this is far superior to the fleeting fame and glory of the world.
We walk side by side in the darkness, each on their own path of pilgrimage. We cannot know if we are heading toward the same holy land, for we cannot explain to others, or even to ourselves, exactly what that holy land in our hearts looks like. However, the same passion for pilgrimage leads us to believe that perhaps one such holy land does exist. As beings with souls, the grandeur and tragedy of humanity lie precisely here.
When I am with someone too strong, I feel my own non-existence. When I am with someone too weak, I only feel my own existence. Only when I am with someone of comparable strength do I simultaneously feel the existence of both of us, unfolding infinite possibilities between the two points.
Dedicate one's life to exploring technique, and when technique finally becomes flawless, life is also near its end. This is the sorrow of the master artist.
The greatest convenience my so-called "success" (social recognition, or fame) brings me is the relative detachment from my immediate small environment and its trivial human affairs. I no longer need to engage in petty struggles for many reasonable yet trivial rights. People, because of my "success," are willing or unwilling to grant me these things; if they don't, it doesn't really matter.
