There is a hunger that not even the most abundant of feasts will satiate; a thirst that no beverage shall quench. It is the most precious of treasures. Thousands of maps point at its scattered pieces. Those who don't seek it live ignorant lives. Those whose greed for it grows out of proportion are driven to madness by its pursuit. How not to become mad, when a thousand maps point nowhere, but to themselves?
Men can never accumulate too much of it. They cannot buy its exclusivity. They cannot own it, only borrow it, and be stewards to it, like a gardener is to a frail flower that will surrender to the sands of time.
Some do not understand it, while, in the meditative words of Sir Francis Bacon, only a few grasp the essence of its divine power.
No division is necessary to share it, nor does the person who offer it lose it. Those who gain it might never use it. Some might boast about it or let the cobwebs build a barricade around it. Even then, while its containers erode, degrade and disappear, its essence remains pure, untouched and everlasting.
Men can never accumulate too much of it. They cannot buy its exclusivity. They cannot own it, only borrow it, and be stewards to it, like a gardener is to a frail flower that will surrender to the sands of time.
Some do not understand it, while, in the meditative words of Sir Francis Bacon, only a few grasp the essence of its divine power.
No division is necessary to share it, nor does the person who offer it lose it. Those who gain it might never use it. Some might boast about it or let the cobwebs build a barricade around it. Even then, while its containers erode, degrade and disappear, its essence remains pure, untouched and everlasting.
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