29 October 2011
Today was a strange day. Because while I've been immersed in my inner sadness, and I have also been victim of the frailties of the idealistic human, sometimes, I have been aware of the Truth, millimeter part, very small.
We expect a lot fromothers, and they usually suck the blood ourselves. We put our expectations in others, we envision our satisfaction at the approval of friends, or family, or partner. But it is a mistake it is fatal.
Happiness, to the extent of ecstasy, gratitude to God, our nature is nearest to the pleasures that it gives selflessly. There is no question of receiving love, to find or not find it. The key is located in the method, on the way to go. Give love, give love day and night, to give love in summer or winter, to give love to a friend or your boyfriend, give love. Giving love. When you are giving, we see that even being selfish, we recover the investment in ourselves, not others.
"For having lived in Westminster - how many years now? over twenty, - one feels even in the midst of the traffic, or waking at night, Clarissa was positive, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense (but that might be her heart, affected, that said, by influenza) before Big Ben strikes. There! Out it boomed. First a warning, musical; the the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. Such fools we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven only knows why one lives it so, how one sees it so, making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps (drink their downfall) do the same; can't be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June."
"Mrs Dalloway" by Virginia Wolf.