Stick 35 places Xuanzang in front of you, the monk who walked ten thousand miles for texts most of his contemporaries thought were already good enough. The verse you drew is blunt about the cost of that walk: body tired, mind tired, comfort postponed. If you came to the cylinder asking about studies or exams, notice which line your eye snagged on. Most readers reaching for this stick are not actually asking whether they will pass. They are asking whether the difficulty they are currently inside is the right kind of difficulty.
The stick reflects back something you already suspect. The exhaustion you are feeling is not a sign you chose wrong; it is the texture of real learning, the kind that rewires how you think rather than just topping up what you know. Xuanzang's journey only looks heroic in hindsight. In the moment it was just another cold night, another page of Sanskrit, another stretch of road. Your version of that road might be a stack of past papers, a thesis chapter that refuses to behave, a language you keep almost giving up on. The verse is asking you to recognise that the slog is the path, not a detour from it.