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December 16, 2010

No one lives his life.


Disguised since childhood,

haphazardly assembled

from voices and fears and little pleasures,

we come of age ask masks.


Our true face never speaks.


Somewhere there must be storehouses

where all these lives are laid away

like suits of armor or old carriages

or clothes hanging limply on the walls.


Maybe all paths lead there,

to the repository of unlived things.


Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book of Pilgrimage in Rilke’s Book of Hours

One Comment leave one →
  1. December 16, 2010 3:43 am

    Rilke…excellent stuff, thanks for sharing it.

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