My mind was a mirror: It saw what it saw, it knew what it knew. In youth my mind was just a mirror in a rapidly flying car, which catches and loses bits of the landscapes. Then in time great scratches were made in the mirror, letting outside world come in, and letting my inner self look out. For this is the birth of the soul in sorrow, a birth with gains and losses. The mind sees the world as a thing apart, and the soul makes the world at one with itself. A mirror scratched reflects no image – and this is the silence of wisdom.
That which pushes man to travel is a sense of incompleteness of his mortality. He who wanders and roams, to the constant search for himself or the other towards the light of this or other worlds.
