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Chapter 7: Black-Nosed Buddha

The more prisons, the less life there will be. You will be more afraid that something is happening - and love is disappearing so create a bigger prison. Then love will disappear more, then a still bigger prison will be needed. And there are many subtle methods how to do it: jealousy, continuous jealousy, and possessiveness, to such an extent that the other remains no longer a person. The other becomes just a thing, a commodity, because a thing can be possessed easier than a person, because a thing cannot rebel, cannot disobey, cannot go away without your permission, cannot fall in love with somebody else.

When love becomes a frustration - and it will become a frustration, because it is not love - then you by and by start loving things. Look at people when they polish their cars, the way they look at their car - enchanted! Look at the romantic light that comes to their face when they look at their car; they are in love with their car.

In the West particularly, where love has been killed completely, people are in love with things or animals: dogs, cats, cars, houses. It is easier to love a thing or an animal; a dog is more faithful than a wife ever can be. You cannot find a more faithful animal than a dog - he remains faithful, there is no danger. A wife is dangerous. A husband is dangerous; any moment he can move away and you cannot do anything. And when he moves, your whole ego is shattered, you feel hurt. To protect from that hurt ever happening you start killing the husband or the wife, so they become just like cars and houses - dead things.

This is the misery though: that whenever you possess a person he becomes a thing - but you wanted to love a person, not a thing. Because a thing can be possessed, but a thing cannot be responsive. You may love a thing, but the thing cannot answer your love. You may hug your car, but the car cannot hug you. You may kiss your car, but the kiss cannot be returned.

I have heard about Picasso: A woman, a woman appreciator, a fan of Picasso’s, once came to him and said, “I saw your self-portrait in an art gallery. It is so beautiful, and I became so possessed by it, that I forgot completely and kissed the portrait.”

Picasso looked at the woman and said, “Did the portrait return the kiss?”

The woman said, “What are you asking? How can a portrait return the kiss?”

And Picasso said, “Then that is not my portrait!” How can a dead wife return the kiss? How can a dead husband return the kiss?

This is the misery: if you want to possess, you kill. And the moment you have succeeded the whole glory is lost, because now the other cannot respond. The other can respond only in freedom, but you cannot allow freedom because you are not in love. Love is never possessive. It cannot be, by its very nature.

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