If you hide a flower in a room where no sun reaches it, no wind reaches it, you may think that you are protecting it, but you are killing it; you are committing a murder. It is with good intentions, of course: it is for the flower’s own good because outside there is wind and there is too much rain and too much sun, and you want to protect the delicate bud. So that it can become a flower, you hide it in your bedroom and you close all the doors and all the windows. It will die.
It can open only when it is connected with the sun, it can open only when it can dance in the wind, it can open only when it can enjoy the shower of rain, when it can have a dialogue with the stars. It belongs to the whole; it can only open up in a deep rootedness with the whole.
Man remains a bud; his blissfulness remains a bud for the simple reason that he is too concerned about security, afraid of danger, insecurity, risk. So he keeps himself within a certain boundary and encloses himself in a protective wall. This is how he becomes a prisoner.
Life can be lived only as insecurity, life can be lived only as danger – there is no other way.