Dear Mr.Ma
I laid you down at the riverbank and went by, yet you still carry me upon your back.
When you start to engage in dialogue with others or, better, to manipulate people with your tongue like a serpent — even when you tell yourself that you are no longer a disciple, you feel yourself indefinitely challenged, or rejected or accused; I still remain interiorized deep down in your heart, speaking within you and before you.
The success you dream of, the failure you are afraid of, the growth you think you created yourself, and the limits you have yet to confront are all under my shadow; even when you gaze at your lover with affection, the memory of her careless words creeps back, twining about your heart like a persistent vine — the more you try to tear it away, the tighter it coils. You are still an infant who, by definition and as his name indicates, cannot speak your own. You, an unhappy consciousness, will never break the glass like that.
The wind blows.