.
.
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
from The Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
art by picasso
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