The Fear of Inner Solitude

How necessary it is to die each day, to die each minute to
everything, to the many yesterdays and to the moment that has
just gone by! Without death there is no renewing, without death
there is no creation. The burden of the past gives birth to its
own continuity, and the worry of yesterday gives new life to the
worry of today. Yesterday perpetuates today, and tomorrow is
still yesterday. There is no release from this continuity except
in death. In dying there is joy. This new morning, fresh and
clear, is free from the light and darkness of yesterday; the
song of that bird is heard for the first time, and the noise of
those children is not that of yesterday. We carry the memory of
yesterday, and it darkens our being. As long as the mind is the
mechanical machine of memory, it knows no rest, no quietude, no
silence; it is ever wearing itself out. That which is still can
be reborn, but anything that is in constant activity wears out
and is useless. The wellspring is in ending, and death is as
near as life.