Now and again I read something that really resonates with me. Today, reading an article on Mark Twain in the Good Weekend, this little piece of his writing really connected with me.
"What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, and every day, the mill of his brain is grinding and his thoughts, not those other things, are his history. His acts and his words are merely the visible thin crust of his world ... The mass of him is hidden - it and its volcanic fires that toss and boil and never rest, night or day. These are his life, and they are not written and cannot be written."
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