Isn't it strange that we talk least about the things we think about most?

After my death, the molecules of my being will return to the earth and sky. They came from the stars. I am of the stars.

Then what am I - the body substance which I can see with my eyes and feel with my hands? Or am I this realization, this greater understanding which dwells within it, yet expands through the universe outside; a part of all existence, powerless but without need for power; immersed in solitude, yet in contact with all creation? There are moments when the two appear inseparable, and others when they could be cut apart by the merest flash of light.

To a person in love, the value of the individual is intuitively known. Love needs no logic for its mission.

True, the fragile bodies of his fellows do not weigh down his plane; true, the fretful minds of weaker men are missing from his crowded cabin; but as his airship keeps its course he holds communion with those rare spirits that inspire to intrepidity and by their sustaining potency give strength to arm, resource to mind, content to soul. Alone? With what other companions would man fly to whom the choice were given?

[I] grew up as a disciple of science. I know its fascination. I have felt the godlike power man derives from his machines.

Isn't it strange that we talk least about the things we think about most?