Yibo

Passage

We like metaphors because it conceals the bloodiness of truth. It is also called a euphemism, to protect ourselves from seeing the actual gore. We treat our children the way we treat ourselves. Hide them from the realities of life, so when they finally have to face life, they are ill-prepared. Why do we not like exposure? What are we afraid of? Have we gotten so used to hide and seek that we do not know how to face life as it is?

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There is much talk of courage, but when it comes to letting go, there is little. A mother might presume to love the teenage daughter, and becomes what one might call a “helicopter parent”. A husband might presume to love the wife, and becomes possessive and controlling, with ensuing violence. Much has been done in the name of love, such as domestic abuse, rape, and even genocide. It is quite important to understand what love actually is. One faces many teachers, either religious or secular, that talk about love and define love. One must bear in mind that any definition of love only excludes, as definition is exclusive by nature. Love is, to the naked heart, not exclusive at all. Love is like water, which serves all, but is not attached to anything. Such are the peculiar qualities of love, that it is not control at all. Possessiveness, either from parent to child, or lover to lover, is only the expression of fear, namely the fear of loss. It is the fear of losing the other, of losing what one thinks the other should be like, that nurtures possessiveness in human relationships.

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Words are like a screen. They shade the already innocent reality. Shadows are created by words, in the forms of speeches and ideologies. There is no ideology that isn't violent. The ultimate aim of ideology is to change the world into its image. Ideology is very violent in its incessant demand to occupy every being. The anti-ideology is the same, just ideology deceiving itself to be its opposite. There is no opposite.

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The valley sometimes smelt sweet, with the wind carrying scents of flowers low in the ground. Blue, white, and yellow covered some of the ground with the vitality only spring knows. Walking among the great mountains, austere, immovable, one is almost non-existent. Such is the bliss of the absence of oneself. The howls of the wind were almost alive, carrying timeless waves of music through this path carved out by man. Rarely anyone was around, and the joy of silence danced on every leaf, every blade of grass, every moving cloud. The clouds, what tremendous depth. They carried a great deal with them, protruding into heavy grey, and one almost suspected that the rain might be coming soon. In the distance, bright sunlight and voluminous clouds throw the blue sky into sharp relief. It felt like the door to infinite wonders had been opened just there.

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