Don’t hide or perform your sadness—look at it honestly, see how your own expectations feed it, and it will loosen and fade.
From the Discourses
Passages where Osho speaks to this question — each links to the complete discourse.
Osho, there is a great fear of death. Is there any way to be free of it?
I have heard that on his campaigns Alexander reached a place where he learned there was a spring whose water, if drunk, makes one immortal. He went in search of it. When he reached the spring, he rejoiced; never had he seen water so crystal clear. He was about to cup it in his palms when a crow perched on a branch said, “Stop, Alexander! You will regret it. First hear me.” Alexander was astonished—one marvel: water that grants immortality; another marvel: a speaking crow. “What do you want to say?” The crow said, “I too drank this water. I am no ordinary crow; as you are Alexander among men, I am Alexander among crows. I spent my life searching and found this spring. I drank—and now I writhe. I have been alive for thousands of years; I cannot die. I throw myself from cliffs, dash my head on rocks,…
Osho, suffering becomes lighter when we share it with one another. That is, when sorrow comes, if we speak it out and cry a little, we forget it. If we don’t speak, we don’t forget; the sadness lingers for a day or two.
That sadness remains because the issue is not whether you tell it to another or not—that is not the big question. The big question is that you give your attention to sorrow; that’s why the sadness stays. Give your attention to joy; keep the tally of joy.
Osho, I am so familiar with sorrow that I can’t bring myself to trust happiness. One sorrow leaves and another arrives; it just goes on like that. Will I ever have a glimpse of happiness? Show me the path—what should I do to attain happiness? I am ready to do anything.
One sorrow follows another. The son finishes and the father arrives. But the beginning—why did you go to the poet’s house at all? And when he laughed, why didn’t you run away then? When he ordered tea, why didn’t you take the hint? Once you drink the tea, leaving becomes difficult. If you eat someone’s salt, you must play along—otherwise they’ll call you ungrateful! Be careful in advance. Where is the root of sorrow? It is in the ego, in the sense “I am.” This is the root of all diseases; all the ailments are its leaves. And you do not let go of it; you cling to it. Yet it is a sheer, downright untruth. You are not; the divine is. I am not; the divine is. A wave imagines, “I am,” whereas only the ocean is—where is the wave? And once you start living a lie, you must…
Osho, I think to get free of sorrow I should lean on someone, sit in the shade of someone’s love. But even when I don’t find that, there is still a kind of consolation that at least my own suffering is there—along with someone’s neglect. Please tell me, why does this happen?
Every door is the door of Rama—bow your head to all as you go: if you have loved someone, the door of Rama opens. Wherever love knocks, there the door of Rama opens. Never avoid love. Enter love. Do not be afraid of love. Love will give great pain; love will burn; love will become fire—but only by passing through fire does one become pure gold. Do not be frightened of the fire of love; do not run away; otherwise you will remain half-baked, incomplete, full of clay. So I do not say that love will give you only happiness. I do not say love is a bed strewn with flowers. Love is a path of great pain. But it is necessary to pass through it. Only by passing through it do you become worthy of prayer, mature for prayer. The moment someone is immersed in love, a taste begins;…
Osho, all through life—waking and sleeping—we have already passed through endless hellish torment because of fear and guilt. Isn’t that enough? Must we then be sent to hell again after death?
The priest asked for a week to think. He thought for seven days and found nothing, because the matter became tangled. If he said: “The virtuous will go to hell for lack of faith,” virtue loses all value. If he said: “The believer will go to heaven despite being unvirtuous,” then merely believing, flattering, praising is enough—what worth remains in virtue? And if he said: “The virtuous go to heaven whether they believe in God or not,” then arises the question: why believe at all? Virtue is decisive—why bring God in between? Science holds a rule: the fewer principles you can manage with, the better; more principles create confusion. If by virtue one goes to heaven and by vice to hell, the matter is finished; why bring God in? If by believing in God one goes to heaven and by not believing to hell, then drop the talk of virtue…