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You are like me, you are different from most people. You are Kamala, nothing else, and inside you is a stillness and a refuge, into which you can enter at any time and be at home, just as I can. Few people have this, and yet everyone is capable of having this.
“Simple is the life that one leads here in the world,” thought Siddhartha. “There are no obstacles. Everything was difficult, tiresome, and in the end hopeless while I was still a shramana. Now everything is easy, easy as the instruction in kissing Kamala gives me. I need clothing and money, nothing else, these are small goals and near; I won’t lose any sleep over them.”
At times, deep within his breast, he perceived a voice, dying, soft, a voice that gently admonished, gently lamented, scarcely so that he heard it. Then for an hour it came to his consciousness that he led a peculiar life, that he only did things that were nothing but a game, that although he felt cheerful and sometimes even felt joy, real life nonetheless flowed past him and did not touch him.
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