I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.
“Where now are our ardent prayers? Where now are our best gifts — the pure tears of emotion which a guardian angel dries with a smile as he sheds upon us lovely dreams of ineffable childish joy? Can it be that life has left such heavy traces upon one’s heart that those tears and ecstasies are for ever vanished? Can it be that there remains to us only the recollection of them?”
Leo Tolstoy | Childhood