"You know, one has collected so much, not only books, houses, the bank account, but inwardly, the memories of insults, the memories of flattery, the memories of neurotic achievements, the memory of holding on to your owns experience, which gives you a position...But do it [giving up your attachments] psychologically- not giving up your wife, your clothes, your husband, your children, or your house, but inwardly- is not to be attached to anything...When there is attachment, there is fear." J. Krishnamurti.
"If one corner of my life is in disorder, then the whole of my life is in disorder. If there is disorder in my life in regard to sex, then the rest of my life is in disorder. So I shouldn't ask how to put one corner in order, but why I have broken life into so many different fragments- fragments which are in disorder within themselves and which all contradict...Each fragment is a separate pleasure. I should ask myself whether I am going to stay in some sordid little room of pleasure all my life. Go into slavery of each pleasure, each fragment, and say to yourself, my god, I am dependent, I am a slave to all these little corners- is that all this to my life?" J. Krishnamurti.
So, are you ready for the leaps and bounds of life? You know, the kind of day that starts off orange and ends in blue only to begin all over again in a different key and beat, that make even the crimson, golds and teal seem less exotic to a blind sentience that knows so much it knows nothing Then they talk and wonder about what happened tomorrow when they don't even know that they are drifting through, sleepwalking in, a world that's only half awake, getting subtle hints from the drops of rain that fall from a sky that should be blue or gray or white, but is really a translucent partition to a fragile laughter, clinging to a fraying thread on the edge of a chaotic harmony... Are you ready for the tragedies and opportunities of life? You know, the kind of day that ends with the beginning, and travels so far that it really hasn't gone anywhere. The kind of day that only exists in the enigmatic flutter of the honey bee's eclectic wing, the fingers of the wind smirking at the motions of physics, the progression of it's very regression of thought's patterns, nature's illusion and illusion's nature. And to endure such a life is audacious a blink of the eye in an eternal second, sewn into fluidity, trapped by stagnation, encouraged by the right of savage, not the disillusionment of passage, into an elusive abyss of flickering broken pieces to a puzzle that is everything but to be put together.