If I never climbed out of the grave, who would care about the changes in the world.
Who would have thought that life has to go through so many deaths and rebirths. Every day, every minute, every second, the cells in the body are dying and welcoming new life.
We are ourselves, but we are not ourselves. Are the selves at that moment and the selves at this moment the same? Who dares to say that there is no change?
I have never understood why I am alive. The hurried life I live every day is so like the wooden fish that the old monk knocks over and over again.
Sighing at night, I heard a deeper sigh coming from farther away...