Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us -- what happens with the rest?

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.

A feeling is no longer the same when it comes the second time. It dies through the awareness of its return. We become tired and weary of our feelings when they come too often and last too long.

Because the one who wishes it – isn’t the one who, still untouched by the future, stands at the crossroads. Instead, it is the one marked by the future become past who wants to go back to the past, to revoke the irrevocable. And would he want to revoke it if he hadn’t suffered it?

Maar als we ons opmaken iemands innerlijk te begrijpen? Is dat een reis waar ooit een einde aan komt? Is de ziel het domein van feitelijkheden? Of zijn de vermeende feitelijkheden niet meer dan de bedrieglijke schaduwen van onze verhalen?