More gold has been mined from the thoughts of men than has been taken from the earth.
- Napoleon Hill
I slump in front of the laptop. I can no longer hide from myself that I have, once again, taken on too many projects. The weight is unbearable as if I am carrying each and every one on my shoulders, evil little imps of doom and despair. They snigger in my ear, their hot, fetid breath on my neck; their constant jeers taunt and tease, my brain rattles and the urge to simply push myself away from the desk, away from my laptop, to drop it all with a resounding thud sweeps over me.
He, on the other hand, continues to take on more and more projects, working like the devil has him by the toes, bewailing every second of spare time he has, no matter how badly he truly needs a break. When he does pause from one of his many activities, he hops and dances around my desk, urging me to pay attention, to join him on a jaunt around town, to alleviate his boredom, satisfy his need for movement.
For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider,
every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver.
- Martin Luther
Photographs of autumn past. A golden glow lighting up the city that fires my imagination. Something unreal, intangible thoughts, elusive emotions lie in the gilded wonder of a city in autumn.
My romantic sensibility is awakened. Golden photographs scattered across my desktop like a handful of jewels tossed across the floor. A fantastic landscape of wonder, a fairytale vision of our everyday, ordinary life.
The alchemists in their search for gold discovered many other things of greater value.
- Arthur Schopenhauer
I love autumn for its glow, its magic. Crisp cool days in a dazzle of sunlight, a flourish of leaves as my feet kick through the carpet of gold, yellow, red. Everything suddenly takes on that resplendent intensity and my own burdens seem lighter, irrelevant in the flush and splendor of fall. A sky of burnished gold welcomes me in the morning. Everyday objects, touched as if by sorcery, blend in with their glorious surroundings as painted on a canvas.
A city on fire, suffused with a luminosity that cannot but draw me out of myself and my own melancholy.
When I feel the burden of winter, or, worse, the dreary limbo in between two seasons when the weather just cannot make up its mind, when more days are blank, gray phantoms, ill defined, obscured behind hazy, dingy dispositions, I return to the golden days of autumn.
Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth,
but by washing away from it all that is not gold.
- Leo Tolstoy