Through pride we are ever deceiving ourselves. But deep down below the surface of the average conscience a still, small voice says to us, something is out of tune.
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"Deep down, below the surface of the average man's conscience, he hears a voice whispering, "There is something not right," no matter how much his rightness is supported by public opinion or moral code."
Observance of customs and laws can very easily be a cloak for a lie so subtle that our fellow human beings are unable to detect it. It may help us to escape all criticism, we may even be able to deceive ourselves in the belief of our obvious righteousness. But deep down, below the surface of the average man's conscience, he hears a voice whispering, 'There is something not right,' no matter how much his rightness is supported by public opinion or by the moral code.
Conscience is the inner voice that warns us somebody may be looking.
Listening to the siren song of more, we are deaf to the still small voice waiting in our soul to whisper, ‘You’re enough.
Self-acceptance is hard for many of us. There is a voice inside that is constantly judging, first ourselves and then others.
It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us.
There is nothing which deceives us as much as our own judgement.
Any pride or haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our own pride, and leads us by sympathy into comparison, which causes the disagreeable passion of humility.
Little by little we human beings are confronted with situations that give us more and more clues that we aren’t perfect.
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You may have gotten into the habit of doubting that voice that was telling you quite clearly what was really going on. It is essential you get that back.
We are almost always less or more competent than we believe ourselves to be. The unconscious,however, knows who we really are.
We read the world wrong and say that it deceives us.
What is troubling us is the tendency to believe that the mind is like a little man within.
Still, somewhere in the depths of ourselves we all harbor an ashamed, unsatisfied melancholy that quietly awaits a funeral.
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