We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.

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Because the question for me was always whether that shape we see in our lives was there from the beginning or whether these random events are only called a pattern after the fact. Because otherwise we are nothing.

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My condition is not unhappiness, but it is also not happiness, not indifference, not weakness, not fatigue, not another interest � so what is it then?

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Forget everything. Open the windows. Clear the room. The wind blows through it. You see only its emptiness, you search in every corner and don�t find yourself.

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This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me.

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I realize today that nothing in the world is more distasteful to a man than to take the path that leads to himself.

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No matter how long you stand there examining yourself naked before a mirror, you'll never see reflected what's inside.

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Things outside you are projections of what's inside you, and what's inside you is a projection of what's outside. So when you step into the labyrinth outside you, at the same time you're stepping into the labyrinth inside.

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I have this strange feeling that I'm not myself anymore. It's hard to put into words, but I guess it's like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.

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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

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