Antoine de Saint-Exupery. Terre des Hommes (earth of humanity) (№ 28285)

You built your quiet little world, walled shut all the exits to the light, as do termites.
You curled up, took refuge in his Philistine well-being, in rigid habits, and a provincial way of life, you made this poor bulwark and hid from the wind, from the surf and stars.
You don't want to bother a great task, it's a lot of labor cost to forget that you're human.
No one just did not grab you and not kept, and now it's too late. The clay you're made of dried and hardened, and already nothing will be able to awaken in you the sleeping musician, or poet, or artist, who may be lived in you once.