Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.

My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

Life is the path you beat while you walk it.

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence

I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.

No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.