I was strolling in the gardens of an insane asylum when I met a young man who was reading a philosophy book. His behavior and his evident good health made him stand out from the other inmates.
I sat down beside him and asked:
What are you doing here?
He looked at me, surprised. But seeing that I was not one of the doctors, he replied:
It’s very simple. My father, a brilliant lawyer, wanted me to be like him.
My uncle, who owns a large emporium, hoped I would follow his example.
My mother wanted me to be the image of her beloved father.
My sister always set her husband before me as an example of the successful man.
My brother tried to train me up to be a fine athlete like himself.
And the same thing happened at school, with the piano teacher and the English teacher — they were all convinced and determined that they were the best possible example to follow.
None of them looked at me as one should look at a man, but as if they were looking in a mirror.
So I decided to enter this asylum. At least here I can be myself.
– Khalil Gibran
“You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.” ― Rumi
“The living self has one purpose only: to come into its own fullness of being, as a tree comes into full blossom, or a bird into spring beauty, or a tiger into lustre” — D.H. Lawrence
The Me Bird
I am the Pablo Bird,
bird of a single feather,
a flier in the clear shadow
and obscure clarity,
my wings are unseen,
my ears resound
when I walk among the trees
or beneath the tombstones
like an unlucky umbrella
or a naked sword,
stretched like a bow
or round like a grape,
I fly on and on not knowing,
wounded in the dark night,
who is waiting for me,
who does not want my song,
who desires my death,
who will not know I’m arriving
and will not come to subdue me,
to bleed me, to twist me,
or to kiss my clothes,
torn by the shrieking wind.
That’s why I come and go,
fly and don’t fly but sing:
I am the furious bird
of the calm storm.