We're all the sons of God, or children of the Is, or ideas of the Mind, or however else you want to say it.
Next to ‘God’, ‘love’ is the word most mangled in every language.
How can we resent the life we've created for ourselves?
Why had such a promising world been crucified on the tree of obligation, thorned by duties, hanged by hypocrisy, smothered by customs?
Fail at love, and the other tests don't matter.
Get this in mind early: We never grow up.