There's a childish instinct in humanity
that makes the proudest among us, if he's a man and not crazy, long,
- Blessed Father! - for the paternal hand that would guide us, in
whatever shape or form as long as it guide us, through the world's
mystery and confusion. Each of us is a speck of dust that the wind of
life lifts up and then drops. We have to depend on a stronger force,
to place our small hand in another hand, for today is always
uncertain, the sky always far, and life always alien.
These of us who have risen highest
merely have a deeper awareness of how uncertain and empty everything
is.
Perhaps we're guided by illusion; we're
surely not guided by consciousness.
Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 158
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