The destination cannot be described; You will know very little until you get there; You will journey ᗷᒪIᑎᗪ. But the way leaᗪs towarᗪs possession Of what you have ᔕOᑌGᕼT for In the wrong place. In order to arrive at what you do not know You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance. In order to possess what you do not possess You must go by the way of dispossession. In order to arrive at what you are not You must go through the way in which you are not. And what you do not know is the only thing you know And what you own is what you do not own And where you are is where you are not. At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time. T. S. Eliot

Does the r͎o͎a͎d͎ wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come. ɕհɾίs⃟ϯίηα ༒ rϴs⃟s⃟εϯϯί

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. ɓψ ɾσɓεɾϯ ƒɾσςϯ

ᙢy ᙓᎩᙓᔕ alᖇeaᖙᎩ touch the ᔕuﬡﬡᎩ hill goiﬡg ℱar aheaᖙ of the ↹ r⃣͢🚦a͎d⃣. I hᗩve bᙓguﬡ. So ᙡe are grᗩspᙓᖙ bᎩ ᙡhat ᙡe caﬡﬡot gᖇasp; it hᗩs iﬡﬡᙓᖇ light, ᙓvᙓﬡ ℱᖇom a ᖙistᗩﬡce- aﬡᖙ chᗩﬡges us, ᙓⅤᙓﬡ if ᙡe ᖙo ﬡot ᖇeᗩch it, iﬡto soᙢethiﬡg ᙓlsᙓ, ᙡhich, haᖇᖙlᎩ ᔕeﬡᔕing it, ᙡe alrᙓady are; ᗩ gesture ᙡavᙓᔕ us oﬡ aﬡsᙡeriﬡg our oᙡﬡ ᙡavᙓ... but ᙡhat ᙡe ℱeel is the ᙡind in our ℱaᑕᙓᔕ. ╬ 尺i ℓ к℮ ╬

One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice-- though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do-- determined to save the only life you could save. ᯽ ｍａｒｙｏｌｉｖｅｒ᯽

The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet, And whither then? I cannot say.

the higher you climb the greater the pressure. those who manage to endure learn that the distance between the top and the bottom is obscenely great. and those who succeed know this secret: there isn't one. ⮑ Ⴊῠk∅ᏇႽki ☜

Surprising things can happen to any one who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in an agreeable determinedly courageous one. Two things cannot be in one place. Where, you tend a rose, my lad, A thistle cannot grow.

I heard a wood thrush in the dusk Twirl three notes and make a star -- My heart that walked with bitterness Came back from very far. Three shining notes were all he had, And yet they made a starry call -- I caught life back against my breast And kissed it, scars and all.

I saw the long line of the vacant shore, The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, As if the ebbing tide would flow no more. Then heard I, more distinctly than before, The ocean breathe and its great breast expand, And hurrying came on the defenceless land The insurgent waters with tumultuous roar. All thought and feeling and desire, I said, Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of song Have ebbed from me forever! Suddenly o’er me They swept again from their deep ocean bed, And in a tumult of delight, and strong As youth, and beautiful as youth, upbore me. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow