???There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself? That is why life is always like a sketch. No, "sketch" is not quite a word, because a sketch is an outline of something, the groundwork for a picture, whereas the sketch that is our life is a sketch for nothing, an outline with no picture.??
?? Milan Kundera
???I was not a hypocrite, with one real face and several false ones. I had several faces because I was young and didn't know who I was or wanted to be.??
?? Milan Kundera, The Joke
???Love is a battle," said Marie-Claude, still smiling. "And I plan to go on fighting. To the end." Love is a battle?" said Franz. "Well, I don't feel at all like fighting." And he left.??
?? Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
???There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting.
A man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down.
Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himeself from a thing still too close to him in time.
The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting??
Let the fire in our hearts become a fire in our minds.
Faces in a crowd disjointed, fingers pointed, the lifeless anointed Readers perusing shelves, sources pulled as we laugh at ourselves letting go when it's time, dropping the act, making peace on a dime
Place the mask upon thy face, carefully tucking in any wandering wisps, neatly so. Flings around her shoulders, the veil which cloaks, all. The Lady rides on forward, with faith in her heart, and might upon her will. Divided as halves- on her black steed, her white-winged self soars, flying on above, in grace.
With winds now bellowing, lifting her hair here and there as it passes. As if fingers were, but stroking it- deliberate understanding. She embarks forth, like thus a dark figure into oblivion. Never looking back not even but once, for this is she, her own strength. She is the mistress of death. A sword she consistently wields, in peace and war. It is a solitary journey, to be re-born, as dragons and phoenixes do.
Watch that fleeting smile, that careful gaze, the tender caress of her hands, and relish it, blink not, for next you turn your head, she will be but gone.
Veiled thus in black, mourning for losses that were, that have been, that will be. For this is the cycle, we must all embark on. Fated as it is so.
Now, she turns toward the uncertain future. Her lips momentarily part. For a moment, a brief moment, you see her hands shake, upon her reigns. Her chest rise and fall, to the rhythm of a foreign melody, severed. A shining glistening... tear-drop... falls... . . .