Eva. Every day I've climbed up the belfry chanting a lucky chant at one syllable per beat, "To-day-to-day-let-her-be-here-to-day-to-day.
Strangers are endearing because you don’t know them yet.
My feelings are too loud for words and too shy for the world.
If you are good, they say you are weak.
In every sound, the hidden silence sleeps.
Knighthood lies above eternity; it doesn’t live off fame, but rather deeds.
Life eats life to live.
There are no coincidences. Just miracles by the boatload.
We are not so easily guided by our most prominent weaknesses as by those of which we are least aware.
But as for me: I must ask the wounded man where he is hurt, because I cannot become the wounded man. The only wounded man I can be is me.
When it comes to spiritual teachers, there are those safe, gentle, consoling, soothing, caring; and there are the outlaws, the living terrors, the Rude Boys and Nasty Girls of God realization, the men and women who are in your face, disturbing you terrifying you, until you radically awaken to who and what you really are.