To whatever we are afraid, we are a slave twice. Once to the fear itself, and again to he who wields the object of our frightening—or its picture. Best to be careful in dispensing our fear, for one batch begets the next as a good yeast. It is the only resource of which we do not run easily dry, and if we do become parched of it, some bastard may easily stir up another batch; better to love fate, to be thankful in death —out of its weak threat—for its rest and the setting down of our worry— and not to value this life, which is only one amongst all of those in history, no matter its grandeur or potential or waste, so highly that we give it away in the meantime to that man who would strike at us for his pleasure or his victory—or both; he is no more than the window salesman walking about town with rocks in his pockets. And check your own pockets, friend. Do you break your own windows under the cover of the blinding sun of day—of the conciencia mortus—the bite of consciousness? Fear of death I mean. The man accepting of death and pain cannot be poisoned by fear nor be made a slave to it.
Drawn from Seneca’s letter LXXVII