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Marcus Aurelius: To noble men the burden.

Marc Aurèle : Aux Hommes nobles le fardeau.
One day, we look in the mirror and there is a crack. Time passes and we see it. We ask ourselves, "What did you do?"

To look at yourself in a mirror. Not to see her wrinkles or the ravages of time. But to look at his soul through his eyes. To see the bottom, to see the shame.
"What have you done with me?"

Not being able to look at yourself in a mirror, that's what nobility is. People finally accept their reflection, so that this ordeal will end. Eventually, they come to terms with it. If nobility is the least shared trait in the world, it's because it's hard to carry its burden. Everyone would like to throw it to the side of the road, to feel suddenly light and not look back. And everyone does it. Nobility dies by the hand of each.

Looking in the mirror. Everyone looks in the mirror. But do they really look at themselves? They look at themselves to see if they are presentable to the world, but they do not ask themselves if they are presentable to themselves. Their gaze is light, it hovers. It lingers on a physical detail. But refuses to see their ugliness.

And then one day you meet someone beautiful. Not of a plastic beauty, of another beauty. Of a righteousness, of an ardor. Of a nobility. The child in us wakes up. We are already grown up but he says that anyway. He says: "When I grow up. When I grow up, I will be like him." 
We look at ourselves in the mirror with the eyes of this child, full of malice, full of contempt. It is painful. His existence is a torment. So we forget about him. We don't give him food. Instead of growing, he gets thinner, and eventually he dies.

Sometimes his ghost comes back and asks us, "What did you do with me?" and we laugh. We laugh inwardly. We make fun of this dream, we call it a fad, we call it a pipe dream. We return to the ordinary world without taking this child by the hand, we return alone, without a mirror. And we drown in this crowd that has also forgotten this child. We dance in this great celebration, in this great laughter, in this great oblivion.
The nobility dies by the hand of each.

Missor.