A story
A story one refuses to admit is a story becomes a lie.
Labels: thought
Methinks my seasons revolve more slowly than those of nature. I am differently timed. This rapid revolution in nature, even of nature in me, why should it hurry me? Let a man step to the music which he hears, however measured. May not my life in nature in proportion as it is supernatural, be only the spring and infantile portion of my spirit's life? Shall I turn my spring to summer? My spirit's unfolding observes not the pace of nature. The society which I was made for is not here. Shall I, then, substitute for the anticipation of that this poor reality? If life is a waiting, so be it. I will not be shipwrecked on a vain reality.
—Henry David Thoreau
—Henry David Thoreau
Thursday, December 10, 2015
