When I turn back to look at the past, I think how much time has been wasted, how much of it has been lost misdirected efforts, mistakes, and idleness, in living in the wrong way; and, however I treasured life, how much I sinned against my heart and spirit – my heart bleeds now as I think of it. Life is a gift, life is happiness, each minute could be an eternity of bliss.
I am looking at the celestial sphere with eternal reverence, and I am thanking God for being born under the lucky stars and for sending me wonderful friends into my life. I am relieved and gratified that I am in Mexico; not in Japan. I am heading back to the apartment slowly and jovially with a full of grace in my heart. Far away from my own country, I become a human being again. I have finally started living my life to the fullest despite of fact that I should have started it for a long time ago.
It is very important for one to discover who he truly is and also vital for one to realize what his mission in his life is. In order to be awakening, one must introspect himself earnestly and should not be afraid of exposing his idiosyncrasies. Once he realizes who he truly is, he will know how different he is from others and how unique he is. And also he will know that he has the infinite power to follow his own destiny and will be overwhelmed with his possibility. He will stand alone like a shining star in heaven. Hesse impressively depicted the last shudder of Siddhartha’s awakening:
Siddhartha stood still and for a moment an icy chill stole over him. He shivered inwardly like a small animal, like a bird or a hare, when he realized how alone he was. He had been homeless for years and had not felt like this. Now he did feel it. Previously, when in deepest meditation, he was still his father’s son, he was a Brahmin of high standing, a religious man. Now he was only Siddhartha, the awakened; otherwise nothing else. He breathed in deeply and for a moment he shuddered. Nobody was so alone as he. He was no nobleman, belonging to any aristocracy, no artisan belonging to any guild and finding refuge in it, sharing its life and language. He was no Brahmin, sharing the life of the Brahmins, no ascetic belonging to the Samanas. Even the most secluded hermit in the woods was not one and alone; he also belonged to a class of people. Govinda had become a monk and thousands of monks were his brothers, wore the same gown, shared his beliefs and spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong? Whose life would be share? Whose language would he speak?
At that moment, when the world around him melted away, when he stood alone like a shining star in the heavens, he was overwhelmed by a feeling of icy despair, but he was more firmly himself than ever. That was the last shudder of his awakening, the last pains of birth. Immediately he moved on again and began to walk quickly and impatiently, no longer homewards, no longer to his father, no longer looking backwards.