“What would you say to yourself if you could actually meet a younger you?”

“Faith is a forward motion.”

“You don’t need to be everyone, nothing is ever awesome than to be comfortable in your own skin.”

“You suffered a lot, I knowYou’ve been through many things that no one knowsIt made you cryIt made you weakIt made you lay on bed all dayHoping when you wake up it’s all gone But despite all of those, you survivedYes it’s still there —But you’re fightingKeeping the faithMaking the best out of yourself”

“[Martin] Luther, we grant, overcame bondage out of devotion by replacing it by bondage out of conviction. He shattered faith in authority because he restored the authority of faith. He turned priests into laymen because he turned laymen into priests. He freed man from outer religiosity because he made religiosity the inner man. He freed the body from chains because he enchained the heart.”

“The same virtues, in the end, the same virtue (love), are required throughout, and fantasy (self) can prevent us from seeing a blade of grass just as it can prevent us from seeing another person. An increasing awareness of ‘goods’ and the attempt (usually only partially successful) to attend to them purely, without self, brings with it an increasing awareness of the unity and interdependence of the moral world. One-seeking intelligence is the image of faith.”

“Maybe I am villain in your story, but I am hero in mine.”

“I paid, got up, walkedto the door, openedit.I heard the mansay, “that guy’snuts.”out on the street Iwalked northfeelingcuriouslyhonored.”

“There is something more dangerous than the death of one’s body. It is “the undiscovered self”; being alive without knowing why.”

“I want to unfold.I don’t want to be folded anywhere,because where I am folded,there I am a lie.”

“And yet this self, containsTides, continents and stars―a myriad selves,Is small and solitary as one grass-bladePassed over by the windAmongst a myriad grasses on the prairie.”

“Not only are selves conditional but they die. Each day, we wake slightly altered, and the person we were yesterday is dead. So why, one could say, be afraid of death, when death comes all the time?”

“Then you are a poet?’ she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket.’No not at all,’ he waved his hand. ‘I am merely a character in a poem.”

“You had once asked me if I was afraid of death. I said I was afraid of not living. I don’t want to eke out my life like a resource in short supply. The only selfish life is a timid one. To hold back, to withdraw, to keep the best in reserve, both overvalues the self, and undervalues what the self is.”