Tuesday, September 9, 2014

We Come of Age as Masks



 No one lives his life.

    Disguised since childhood,
    haphazardly assembled
    from voices and fears and little pleasures,

    We come of age as masks.
    Our true face never speaks.

    Somewhere there must be storehouses
    where all these lives are laid away
    like suits of armor or old carriages
    or clothes hanging limply on the walls.

    Maybe all paths lead there,
    to the repository of unlived things.

Rainer Maria Rilke







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