The Backdrop of Greed and Anger in My Heart

Tracing it back, I think it probably began with a delusion. That delusion gave birth to a sense of loss in relationships with people, in organizations, in work.

To name the delusion that bred this sense of loss more clearly and concretely: it was the delusion that what I made was mine.
Physically, contractually, in terms of work, nothing was mine, and there was no assurance that anything would ever be mine, yet I had been under the delusion that things made by my own dedication and passion alone were mine.
Thus the sense of loss arose from the passion I poured into my work, the emotions I had toward people, and the organizations I built and expanded.

The sense of loss, layered one on top of another, gripped my feelings with the weight of a chilling loneliness. And that loneliness, which had clenched me so tightly, ended up turning me into a dense lump of inferiority and miserliness.
The inferiority demanded narcissistic recognition and made me assert special rights; the miserliness produced surplus obsessions like a hunger for material possessions and intellectual vanity.
And before I knew it, the inferiority and miserliness, which had hardened around my feelings and thoughts like armor, gradually settled in not merely as my surroundings but as roots, planting themselves deep in my heart, accompanied by a stabbing pain.

As I chased after greed, whenever something differed from my own thinking, I would force people to be persuaded, and if I couldn't persuade them, I refused to acknowledge them. When things didn't go the way I wanted, I would raise my voice and resent, and a vicious poisonous mushroom called anger ended up blooming.

That poisonous mushroom, so flamboyant that one couldn't help but notice it — at first I deliberately pretended not to see it, and later, fearing that something might stick to me, I think I poked at it from a distance with my foot and trampled it down.
It is only now, after a long while, when the whole place has become a field of poisonous mushrooms, that I see myself plucking them out by the handful with my hands. Yet I am only obsessed with the thought that they must be pulled out by the roots; truthfully, I still cannot tell where the roots of greed and resentment are, and where the roots of the heart I originally had lie.

I have no feeling in my legs. I moved slightly and they have gone numb. I dab saliva on my nose.
My heart is numb. Even at light jokes and small disappointments, indigestion sets in and I come down with a body ache. Once met, never again — I leave a few words of my heart here, just like that.