Experience.

This is something I wrote about 7 months ago. Every now and then I'll jot down something from my notebook.

Everyone has something to hide. How do we stop these secrets, these thoughts which devour our reasoning and take away any fragment of psychological stability or freedom, from destroying the person we truly are?

Only a man, whose life is an open book in an ever growing library, can truly be himself. Without anything to hide, a person can say or do what is in his heart. But does the absence of comprehensive depth not also corrupt? Perhaps only through doubt and fear can a person appreciate the pure.

As a society we base our achievments through wealth. Has a man that has spent his life creating an empire of riches through daily work missed out? Without time to enjoy what he has created, his life will be a short story of success.

The old phrase "Life cannot be measured by the number of breathes you take but by the number of times you've had your breath taken away" means more to me now, in this time of monotomous stabilty, than I once believed possible.

The problem with my writings is that I often forget the events that caused me to write what I did. I guess it was my attempt to justify keeping things inside. Most of my thoughts don't have a deffinitive answer. I often throw the ideas around in my notebook and when I feel satisfied that I've written enough I stop even if nothing is clarified.