Mind", can't make differences between real and not..., (OFF NOW THAT..., then that...), you are saying lie after lie..., then believing in false stuff. And thinking in positive sides so to scream not much as the other do, but as always you one moment scream you can't stop it... Now putting against me a knife and saying "Go away... give me my daughter... give me her back"..., don't you see the people laugh at you, don't you see it. Look their faces, with so many smiles, but they aren't people, they are from the army, off, off for god sake they are soldiers which have guns. Have killed few people, have taken your daughter and they are many as a number than you and your whole family... Probably this part as an General I must skip it, because it's logical however look it and from this side, nobody will sacrifice so you to be happy... you will die.. O, o, the poor little girl crying in front of the people, she just saw her mother pointing with a knife against the soldiers and now she is killed by one of the soldiers.

Growth of consciousness does not depend on the might of the intellect but on the conviction of the heart.

I start trying to stay unconscious. The problem with this is that no amount of willpower can change the reality.

When in the puppet-show of dreams we hold in hand the strings of quite a number of actors, controlling their actions and their speech, we are not aware of this being so. Only one of them is myself, the dreamer. In him I act and speak immediately, while I may be awaiting eagerly and anxiously what another one will reply

Yes, there is an outside world, and yes, there is an objective reality, but in moving through this world, we constantly apply unconscious filter mechanisms, and in doing so, we unknowingly construct our own individual world, which is our "reality tunnel.

Art, even the art of fullest scope and widest vision, can never really show us the external world. All that it shows us is our own soul, the one world of which we have any real cognisance. And the soul itself, the soul of each one of us, is to each one of us a mystery. It hides in the dark and broods, and consciousness cannot tell us of its workings. Consciousness, indeed, is quite inadequate to explain the contents of personality. It is Art, and Art only, that reveals us to ourselves.