Look to your own house as you attack the house of another. Look to your own hypocrisy as you deliver up your uninvited gift of truth.
This is an age of paradox. An age that has banished ultimate truth, yet banishes it with the words of the Ultimate Truth that is there is no ultimate truth.
When I am alive with passion and shimmering with enthusiasm you look on, irritated, as if my energy were a deliberate reminder of your own lack of it. You label it anger simply to give yourself grounds for a mediocre reaction.
You reach out for me and, when I firmly take hold, you withdraw, accusing me of invading your world, of grasping at you too quickly and too strongly.
You ask me what you should do and, when my reply is an answer you do not wish to hear, you demand I stop telling you what to do.