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At the root of jealousy is a fear of abandonment, and we had no possibility of abandonment in that place.
But eternity—that was on a different level of conception. It forced the mind to acquiesce entirely and accept the here, the now, and the comfort, such as it was.
The world is not what it is: the world is what you make it.
Theatrics don’t work if nobody cares.
To the extent that heaven above is isolation, it seems to be hell. To the extent that hell below is a crowd, it apparently is heaven. Maybe we are condemned to an endless nagging sense of discomfort balanced against comfort, satisfaction against the itch to escape.
The more grandiose I let my thoughts become, the less the world made sense. The more focused my thoughts became on the specific, on the mundane, on the pragmatic, the more of the mystery I understood. That in itself was a paradox worth considering.
