Book: Memory of the soul. Page 2

Our thoughts project reality, in fact, we see this world as we want to see it.

The worst thing is not to have time - to say or do. This is a bug that cannot be corrected. We write life right away on the cleaners, deprived of the right to practice in the draft. Our conscience is the most cruel and bloodthirsty executioner. An enduring sense of guilt - here it is - hell in life.

Man is the only creature who is aware of his mortality. We know that life can end at any time - our own, or the lives of those we love. Isn't it hell to live in anticipation of the end ?!

Blood kinship is not paramount. The kinship of souls is much more important.

How is it possible that a person first met by chance, overnight became a family?!

People are not able to contemplate the beautiful, they are irresistibly attracted by the desire to touch. The next step is to strive to leave your mark. It is replaced by a thirst to destroy and plunder. And then - to appropriate the trophy for themselves, like the mercantile grandchildren who share the inheritance of the old people who have died.

True love lives forever. And the word "eternity" is by no means a metaphor, but only a measure of measurement.

What if time is a human-made concept with no place in the real world? What if the future is spelled out in the smallest details and gradually opens up to our eyes, and we naively believe that we are able to influence the course of events?

Our biggest disappointment comes from our biggest hopes. It is born from a mixture of rosy expectations, naive dreams and a pink haze that envelops the world around like a spider, slowly weaving Putin - a trap in which everything that exists is dissolved. A sweet illusion where reality gradually dies, clearing the way for self-deception. And we follow this path, forgetting that this is only a dream, a matrix, a virtual simulation that does not exist in reality. And the path ends at the end point, where Disappointment meets us, stretches out a bony hand, and looks into the eyes, grinning maliciously.

At the most important, defining moments, we tend to be too busy to devote enough time to what really has value. “I’ll have time, next time,” we think, not suspecting that there is a fatal error in these innocent words.

Sometimes silence is more eloquent than any spoken words, it can sound much louder and more convincing.

Our desires, dreams, fears are a tool with which we can control this world. They are the ones who project what, as a result, becomes the surrounding reality.

Sometimes we want something so intolerably that we begin to pass off what we wish for an already accomplished fact.

Pink glasses fall from the eyes and break on the cold dirty asphalt, scattering around a billion pieces of ice, it seems that they still keep the imprint of the illusion that never really existed in this world, but only in the imagination.