Things are not as we would like them to be. There is only one way to deal with it, namely to try and be all right oneself.
We are aware only of the empty space in the forest, which only yesterday was filled with trees.
We are imprisoned in the realm of life, like a sailor on his tiny boat, on an infinite ocean.
We live trapped, between the churned-up and examined past and a future that waits for our work.
What I have always wanted for myself is much more primitive. It is probably nothing more than the affection of the people with whom I am in contact, and their good opinion of me.
Who promised you that only for joy were you brought to this earth?
Why do we go around acting as though everything was friendship and reliability when basically everything everywhere is full of sudden hate and ugliness?
Everything becomes so problematic because of basic faults: from a discontent with myself.
Creative minds have always been known to survive any kind of bad training.
I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence but it comes from within. It is there all the time.
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