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.
And my eyes failed, I was neither living nor dead, and I knew nothing, looking into the heart of light, the silence.
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.
I will show you fear
in a handful of dust.
The existence of common people is bound to this. Misery and concerns generate sorrow; security and wealth generate boredom.