“This would be a secret that I would carry with me, until the day I died.”

“I loved Enso Roshi’s teachings. I loved learning about life. I loved life. It was a good thing to feel. I loved life, and I loved learning, and I was still learning. I was not, yet, done. At the end of our journeys, there would be an end to the journey. Maybe. If I was lucky. If providence shone down upon me gently. I would find love. I would find acceptance. Complete love. Complete acceptance. I would know, that the self, is an illusion. I would come to enlightenment, but that would also mean, there would be no ‘I’ there. I would realize that the ‘I’ was an illusion, all along, just like some great dream. This is what the wise sages say, the great teachings, the mystical teachings, not only from the East, but also from the West. The Gospel of Saint Thomas. Thomas Merton. Thomas, like I was Thomas, and also doubting, the main reasons I’d chosen the name. If nothing else, it was lovable, just as it is. My life. Even the parts I didn’t love, could I love them? The struggles. It was all part of the journey, and would I not look back fondly on this, at some time? Look at how arduous and sincere I’d been. Look at how worried I’d been. Look at how insecure I’d been. Look at how I’d struggled. Trying to find my way. Would I not look back upon myself, affectionately and fondly and with love?”

“What would my life, have been like, if I hadn't been put up for adoption? Who would my parents have been then? Or my parent, my mother?”

“Why hold secrets? Why harbor anything? Let me just share everything with you. Let me just talk. Let me let go of the censor that is within me ... I’m tired of trying to be someone other than who I am.”

“And could you, from a place of love, actually stand up and, use force, to give someone back, the suffering, they were trying to put on you? Would I do it? Maybe it would even be, an act of fierce compassion, as Enso Roshi sometimes talked about, to not take it any more. To not cow down, anymore. To let my father know, the tyrant, the aggressor, that if he hits me, I’m going to hit back, and hard.”

“I write because of the fragility of our existence. I write because it's my answer to impermanence. I write because it helps me stay connected to my heart. I write because we’re all different, and so much the same. I write because the world needs more tenderness. I write because I'm tired of secrets. I write because it’s my path to redemption. I write because I've forsaken those that I love. I write because I want to know myself. I write because I want to know you. I write because I'm drawn towards things I shouldn't do. I write because every flower is meant to bloom. I write because life is full of paradoxes. I write because I’ve had to leave friends behind. I write because it's my form of prayer. I write because, when I write, I lose track of time. I write because I've walked dark streets looking for love. I write because of the way the sublime slips away from words. I write because of the twice shy part of once burned. I write because it helps me learn. I write because there are plenty of people who have written, famous well-published people, literary figures, literary giants, and I didn't like what they wrote. I write because I'm always telling myself stories anyhow. I write because I don't know all of the reasons I write. I write for you. I write. I write. I write.”

“I don’t know where I’m going on this path. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. You had to be lost, before you could be found. These are the truths. You had to be confused, before you could find clarity; you had to suffer, before you could find peace. These were the only ways, life could happen. Of course you were confused before you found clarity. If you weren't confused, then you would already be clear. Of course you were lost before you were found. If you were already found, then you wouldn't be lost. Of course there would be suffering before peace. If there was already peace, then there wouldn't be suffering. One necessarily came before the other.”