In spite of the difficulties of my experience, in spite of uneasiness, doubts, anguish, in spite of my wish to get out, I will not cease to declare love as something worthy within me.
And my eyes failed, I was neither living nor dead, and I knew nothing, looking into the heart of light, the silence.
I will show you fear
in a handful of dust.
My life is heroic. It cannot be esteemed with a bourgeois yardstick or a shopkeeper’s scale, nor with any measure suiting common people; for they only live their own individual lives, which are limited in a short time.
The existence of common people is bound to this. Misery and concerns generate sorrow; security and wealth generate boredom.