Being the opposite of a mess means knowing yourself at a certain level, and that requires some reflection time and intellectual capacity. Some people decide to apply the Don’t-Go-Home Method instead.

I’ve shed bitter tears listening to broken words. But I never retreated from that opaque debility. Things do pass in time, the burrowing thoughts turn to dust. There is no insult inflicted in calling someone “happy”.

At certain times, there is an overwhelming sense of tiredness for the life one leads, but since that feeling is considered a combination of superficial luxury and weakness, we stubbornly place it in a black box, lock it tight, and throw away the key. We thrive in its melancholy.

Some people believe that our existence is fulfilled within solitude only, that we need to be in solitude because we are individuals after all. I think those people have an image of what they want to destroy, not of what they want to create. They will eventually toss you out, just don’t resign yourself to the cell they want to put you in. Don’t do that to yourself.

When you get awakened by the collapse of the slow burning coals in and around your life, you could do two things: continue knitting on, or raise your eyes and start speaking from your heart.

I realize now that I’m the one placing my own snares. Why is it that I catch myself catching myself but can’t stop placing more and more snares? I may be a snare farmer. I exist insofar I catch myself.

What he really meant was: “Just because you found your talent doesn’t mean you have one”, “Life is like a movie. Your ending has already been written for you”, “With good friends, you will lose”, “Do worry about the world coming to an end”.

Poetry is a straight line towards decomposition. Some people love to be taken by its incandescent wind to a place of blissful fatality, and some people get blisters in their ears just thinking about its howling, knitting sound. It’s funny.