Being constantly worried means to think of oneself constantly, incapable to visualize a neutral path forward. In this fragile state you want to be considered invisible and you want people to be completely ignorant of your proceedings. Except that, deep in your mind, you really don’t want that, you want the opposite of that.
Glued to ourselves, we’re unable to leave the course imbedded in our own misery. Maybe that’s why we love things that are official, so we don’t have to think or take responsibilities. We especially love things that are extra official. It’s fun being evasive, isn’t it?
If we’re able to name what gives us pain, we endure it better, we can fight it and move on. But embracing the painful by defining it means we are rejecting it, we don’t want to claim that as ours, we reject ourselves. But it is yours, no matter how much you deny it. Defining things, labeling, is a destructive vice.
We all have different physical features that make us different, but we all have the same defect: we wait for things. We only live when we have nothing to expect. We’re, therefore, always indirect, always late. Always late. Always.
When you can’t sleep you’re drowned into a pit of irrevocable sorrow, deprived of forgetfulness, begging for the darkness to leave, even if it means going through the day without a break. The sight of a bed can be terrifying.
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.
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.
I washed the precipitation and the expedition from my face. I washed the monotony, I washed the justification, the harmony, the contradiction, the absurdity, the disambiguation, and the fatality. My clarity of vision now seems mockingly poor.