rorindiel:

“And yet, though we strain against the deadening grip of daily necessity, I sense there is this mystery: All life is being lived. Who is living it, then? Is it the things themselves, or something waiting inside them, like an unplayed melody in a flute? Is it the winds blowing over the waters? Is it the branches that signal to each other? Is it flowers interweaving their fragrances, or streets, as they wind through time?”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Und doch, obwohl ein jeder von sich strebt,” Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, trans. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy (Riverhead Books, 1996)