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"How glorious it is, and also how painful, to be an exception."

~Alfred De Musset~

"You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall."

~Rainer Maria Rilke~

"Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth."

~Fyodor Dostoevsky ~

There are things that are
too big
for us people.
Pain, loneliness, death,
but also beauty, eminence and happiness.
Because of this,
we have created religion.
What happens when we lose that?
Those things are still too big for us.
What stays with us,
is the poetry of our individual lives.
Is that strong enough,
to carry us?

Due to intimacy,
we are attached to each other.
The connection is compelling:
she requires exclusivity.
Sharing is betraying.

When others abstain us from their
devotion, respect and admission,
why can't we just say to them:
I don't need all of that,
i have myself.
Isn't it an horrible form of un-freedom,
that we can't do that?
Doesn't it makes us slaves to the others?
Which feelings can you insert against it,
as barrier, as bastion?
Of which nature should the
inner freedom be?

Life extension is also associated with the potential problem of overpopulation. Leon Kass (chairman of the US President's Council on Bioethics from 2001 to 2005) has exemplified the anti-life extension view[23]. He states his hostility to life extension with the words:

"simply to covet a prolonged life span for ourselves is both a sign and a cause of our failure to open ourselves to procreation and to any higher purpose. … [The] desire to prolong youthfulness is not only a childish desire to eat one’s life and keep it; it is also an expression of a childish and narcissistic wish incompatible with devotion to posterity."[24]

Storage is what you have become

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

-Derek Walcott


She was a wiccan. But more than a wiccan, she was honest. She would say things that felt premature, not ready, but said them like: you’re not much of a stockbroker, are you. and, why don’t you fall in love with someone you really love and stop using your life as an excuse to be sad. it was startling really, but everyone wanted her at a party, reading the smidge of leaves at the bottom of a cup. Sometimes, there would be moments of inopportune grace: He loves you more than you imagine, clouds couldn’t stop his army galloping to your rescue. things like that. one day a girl burst out crying and i saw her lay a pale, spidery hand on her shoulder. There was a lamp spilling between them like honey. Sarah, she said, sarah, you deserve what you wish and hope for. Stop trying to make it not so.