‘I am learning to see. I don’t know why it is, but everything enters me more deeply and doesn’t stop where it once used to. I have an interior that I never knew of… What’s the use of telling someone that I am changing? If I’m changing, I am no longer who I was (…)
This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love: the more they give, the more they possess.’
Rainer Maria Rilke
‘They say you spend your whole life rewriting the first poem you ever loved.’ Waldosia & Belgium
Before we know it, we have unintentionally hurt someone who once thought very highly of us, all because of the simple notion that we never fully acknowledged our true emotions. Once we hurt someone else in return, they’ll never think of us in the same light as they once did.
That is the impact of our actions.
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing. I want to fill it with color and ducks, The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate — April snowdrop, Indian pipe, Little
Stalk without wrinkle, Pool in which images Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous Wringing of hands, this dark Ceiling without a star.
Of course, some things are doomed from the start.
Enough is enough! There are two primary choices in life: to accept conditions as they exist, or accept the responsibility for changing them.** So, child, what are you going to do? You can weep all day long, or you can promise yourself that this time you’re going to be good to yourself.
Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them — if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.*** Also, remember, you have the best parents in the entire universe!
‘We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies—all these are private and, except through symbols and at second hand, incommunicable. We can pool information about experiences, but never the experiences themselves. From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes.’
Aldous Huxley – The doors of perception