Am I Doing Anything? I Do It

The Universal Nature Has No External Space; But The Wondrous Part Of Her Art Is That Though She Has Circumscribed Herself, Everything Which Is Within Her Which Appears To Decay And To Grow Old And To Be Useless She Changes Into Herself, And Again Makes Other New Things From These Very Same, So That She Requires Neither Substance From Without Nor Wants A Place Into Which She May Cast That Which Decays. She Is Content Then With Her Own Space, And Her Own Matter, And Her Own Art.

It Is Not The Body, Nor The Personality That Is The True Self. The True Self Is Eternal. Even On The Point Of Death We Can Say To Ourselves, "my True Self Is Free. I Cannot Be Contained."

Each Of Us Lives Only Now, This Brief Instant. The Rest Been Lived Already, Or Is Impossible To See. The Span We Live Is Small - Small As The Corner Of The Earth In Which We Live It.

How Barbarous, To Deny Men The Privilege Of Pursuing What They Imagine To Be Their Proper Concerns And Interests! Yet, In A Sense, This Is Just What You Are Doing When You Allow Your Indignation To Rise At Their Wrongdoing; For After All, They Are Only Following Their Own Apparent Concerns And Interests. You Say They Are Mistaken? Why Then, Tell Them So, And Explain It To Them, Instead Of Being Indignant.

Purge Your Mind Of All Aimless And Idle Thoughts, Especially Those That Pry Into The Affairs Of Others Or Wish Them Ill.