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I look up at the sky, wondering if I’ll catch a glimpse of kindness there, but I don’t. All I see are indifferent summer clouds drifting over the Pacific. And they have nothing to say to me. Clouds are always taciturn. I probably shouldn’t be looking up at them. What I should be looking at is inside of me. Like staring down into a deep well. Can I see kindness there? No, all I see is my own nature. My own individual, stubborn, uncooperative often self-centered nature that still doubts itself – – that, when troubles occur, tries to find something funny, or something nearly funny, about the situation. I’ve carried this character around like an old suitcase, down a long, dusty path. I’m not carrying it because I like it. The contents are too heavy, and it looks crummy, fraying in spots. I’ve carried it with me because there was nothing else I was supposed to carry. Still, I guess I have grown attached to it. As you might expect.

Haruki Murakami- What I talk about when I talk about running

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Distance and nearness are attributes of bodies

The journeyings of spirits are after another sort.

You journeyed from the embryo state to rationality

       without footsteps or stages or change of place,

The journey of the soul involves not time and place.

And my body learnt from the soul its mode of journeying,

Now my body has renounced the bodily mode of journeying.

It journeys secretly and without form, though under a form.

Jallaludin Rumi (1207-73), The Masnavi (extracted in Robert Violette ed., Bill Viola, Reasons for knocking at an Empty House, London 1995)