In some ways, however small and secret
Each of us is a little mad.
Everyone is lonely at the bottom,
And cries to be understood.
But we can never entirely understand someone else
And each of us remains part stranger
Even to those who love us.
It is the weak who are cruel.
Gentleness can only be expected from the strong.
Those who don’t know fear
Are not really brave
For courage is the capacity to confront what can be imagined
If you look at them,
No matter how old, or impressive they are,
As if they are children.
For most of us never really mature,
We simply grow taller.
And happiness comes only when we push our hearts and brains
To the farthest reaches of which we are capable.
For the purpose of life is to matter,
To count, to stand for something
To have made a difference that you lived at all