History Does Not Repeat Itself

Your Joy Is Your Sorrow Unmasked. And The Same Well From Which Your Laughter Rises Was Oftentimes Filled With Your Tears. And How Else Can It Be? The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain. Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter's Oven? And Is Not The Lute That Soothes Your Spirit, The Very Wood That Was Hollowed With Knives?

Your Soul Is Oftentimes A Battlefield, Upon Your Reason And Your Judgment Wage War Against Your Passion And Your Appetite.

How Narrow Is The Vision That Exalts The Busyness Of The Ant Above The Singing Of The Grasshopper.

You Cannot Lay Remorse Upon The Innocent Nor Lift It From The Heart Of The Guilty. Unbidden Shall It Call In The Night, That Men May Wake And Gaze Upon Themselves.

Your Children Are Not Your Children. They Are The Sons And Daughters Of Life's Longing For Itself. They Come Through You But Not From You, And Though They Are With You, Yet They Belong Not To You. You May Give Them Your Love, But Not Your Thoughts. For They Have Their Own Thoughts. You May House Their Bodies But Not Their Souls, For Their Souls Dwell In The House Of Tomorrow, Which You Cannot Visit, Not Even In Your Dreams. You May Strive To Be Like Them, But Seek Not To Make Them Like You. For Life Goes Not Backward, Nor Tarries With Yesterday.