yama uba     Is it Ikkyu’s Koan?      page     12



Life is not real.

Life is not reality.

Life is what you create.

Life is what you forget.



When the wind of life blows, it goes through all the branches in the forest of your home.

The noise of the wind breaks up your dream of eternal happiness.


Dream is not reality.

That’s why I’m unhappy.


Are you quite sure?


It can be where you belong.



When you realize you are facing a silent reflection of the shining moon,



When you understand life is just rustles in the forest you create,



Then, you know you are safe.

The playwright’s recommendation

Some books do not wait for you to pick them up. They simply follow you.

Or they appear in front of you, out of nowhere, without any comprehensible reason, at one critical moment of your life.

It can be on the bench in the commuter boat between Manhattan and the Staten Island. Somebody may have forgot the book or left it on purpose as an intellectual time bomb.

It can be on the beach in Oaxaca, Mexico. A local surfer may hand over the book to you with a big smile, saying: "Si lo quieres, es para ti".

It can be on the Bento box of lunch in the Shinkansen bullet train from Tokyo to Osaka. The book may have a bit of soy sauce stain on its cover. Then, you say:

"Excuse me, but …"

Classics are not like old soldiers. They never disappear.

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➾➾ Continued

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