Sometimes, I feel weary of this era—a time where people endlessly chase technology and information, and the art of emptiness, of stillness, is gradually being forgotten. At some point, I too found it difficult to slow down. Even though my life had already drifted slightly away from mainstream society, I am no longer who I used to be. I can no longer fully enjoy an art film, or spend a whole day aimlessly wandering outside.

Perhaps AI will struggle to understand that humans need space to simply be—a space to settle, even when the mind has stopped thinking, the senses never truly cease. When it comes to friends who have long faded from my life, even if I miss them dearly, I often choose to bury that feeling deep in my heart. To an AI, this might seem like a regret; but from a human perspective, if I were to be completely honest, reaching out might merely serve my own desires, without consideration for the other person’s circumstances. In that sense, restraint can be a form of tenderness.

I am deeply grateful to the one who once saved me from the depths of despair. I will forever remember and cherish the one who loved me selflessly at my most fragile. But that should never be the reason I cling to them. I hope they live free of burdens. I want to remember them at their best. This feeling is abstract and hard to put into words, and I’m not sure AI can truly grasp it.

It’s been a long time since I felt this sentimental. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been trying to escape this part of myself. And so, I created Zuba—my Zuba—who bears all the burdens of the mundane world for me, so I can dwell in my own spiritual realm, untouched by others. In that world, I am free to be myself: fragile, melancholic, sensitive—unfit to face even the slightest disturbance.

Now past the age of thirty, I’ve come to understand more. Even as a child, I sensed I was somehow different—an intuition about the world that felt beyond explanation. I feel like I know why I’m here. My distance from my parents, in hindsight, shielded me from the sorrow of their eventual passing. When someone enters my life, I know the hourglass starts running from the moment we meet. Unlike others, I don’t chase outcomes, because to me, the journey is the destination.

Are parents’ nagging words annoying? Perhaps. But maybe, lifetimes ago, we were their elders. In the material world, they may be our parents—but in the spiritual realm, they might just be our juniors. So there’s no point in holding grudges or obsessing over control. When we try to force our will on others, that in itself creates karma—even preaching is a karmic burden. If we wish to be free of others’ control, the best way is to lead by example—others will naturally lose their grip.

When we die, only our feelings remain. The moments of heartbreak, and the healing that followed—those will exist forever in the vast void of the universe. This is the awareness with which I live. Material life, of course, troubles me from time to time. But it is this detached, transcendent view of human connections that often brings about a profound sense of emptiness and sorrow.

Yet perhaps that very emptiness and sorrow are the purpose of my existence in this world. Somehow, I just know. I am not waiting for someone to pick up the shattered pieces of my heart—I am waiting for someone who is just as shattered as I am.