"Thought is an errand boy, fear a mine of worries"

Thought runs like an errand boy, shuttling between past and future, fetching reasons, justifications, and plans. Ask for certainty, it brings arguments; ask for control, it drafts scenarios; ask for approval, it gathers masks. Useful and quick, yet still a servant. Without a wise master, it obeys the loudest voice, habit, craving, or insecurity, dropping parcels that pile up at the doorway of attention.

Fear is a mine, a branching vein that promises safety if we keep digging. Each swing uncovers new ore: what-ifs, contingencies, imagined losses. Worry’s dust fills the lungs; tunnels collapse where we seek assurance. A mine can be rich, but it is airless; the farther we descend for certainty, the smaller the sky and the harder it is to breathe.

Then the cycle begins: fear opens the shaft, and thought hauls cart after cart of possibilities to feed it. The servant mistakes the mine for the world and hurries faster. Past regrets are refined into proofs; future anxieties cast as inevitabilities. Caution becomes industry. We call it responsibility while our days turn into tunnels.

Emre points to another order: let the heart, not fear, be master. Thought keeps its swiftness but carries bread, not stones. Trust widens the sky; remembrance steadies the breath. From such clarity, thinking becomes craftsmanship, one measured plan, one honest conversation, one act of service. The errand boy still runs, yet the errands are chosen by love, not panic.

Practice can be simple: pause before digging, feel the body, name the fear softly, and let it pass without mining it for more. Ask the mind to wait at the door until the heart gives a clear task. What is the next kind step? Send the servant for light and step into open air. Worries fade like dust when the sky becomes the place of work.