His real life is led in his head
and is known to none but himself.
All day long, and every day,
the mill of his brain is grinding,
and his thoughts (which are but the
mute articulation of his feelings)
are his history.
His acts and his words
are merely the visible thin crust of his world,
with its scattered
snow summits and its vacant wastes of water,
and they are so trifling a part of his bulk!
The mass of him is hidden--
it and its volcanic fires that toss and boil,
and never rest, night nor day.
These are his life, and they are not written,
and cannot be written.
Every day would make a whole book of 80,000 words
three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of a man--
the biography of the man himself cannot be written."
--Mark Twain, Autobiography
This is strangely reassuring to me.
I've long suspected it.
So simple & plain, so obvious.
We are told only our actions count,
everybody says it--
thoughts & words are but thoughts & words,
and only actions matter!
But here is a very different take
on who & what we are
& it rings true as a field of bells.
What do you do with all those thoughts,
how to shape them, guide them, quiet them,
use them, not let them drive you
over the falls?
Write, meditate, listen, pray.
No wonder all this electronic crap
has come along
to take your mind off your own mind!
Thank you, Mark! Thank you, Sam!
Strangely reassuring, comforting,
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Posted by Richard Martin.... at 11:51 PM