I refuse to accept other people’s ideas of happiness for me. As if there’s a one size fits all standard for happiness.
You know these things as thoughts, but your thoughts are not your experiences, they are an echo and after-effect of your experiences: as when your room trembles when a carriage goes past. I however am sitting in the carriage, and often I am the carriage itself. In a man who thinks like this, the dichotomy between thinking and feeling, intellect and passion, has really disappeared. He feels his thoughts. He can fall in love with an idea. An idea can make him ill.
the worst is having a dream where someone loves you and you can practically feel them touching you and it feels so real and then you wake up and it’s like the life is being sucked out of you and the happiness just drains out of your body and you feel empty again