This play that I witnessed is my play, not your play. It is my secret, not yours. You cannot imitate me.

My secret remains virginal and my mysteries are inviolable, they belong to me and cannot belong to you.

You have your own.

He who enters into his own must grope through what lies at hand, he must sense his way from stone to stone.

He must embrace the worthless and the worthy with the same love.

A mountain is nothing, and a grain of sand holds kingdoms, or also nothing. Judgment must fall from you, even taste, but above all pride, even when it is based on merit.

Utterly poor, miserable, unknowingly humiliated, go on through the gate.

Turn your anger against yourself, since only you stop yourself from looking and from living.

The mystery play is soft like air and thin smoke, and you are raw matter that is disturbingly heavy.

But let your hope, which is your highest good and highest ability, lead the way and serve you as a guide in the world of darkness) since it is of like substance with the forms of that world. ~Carl Jung, Red Book, Pages 246-247

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