Why are we always encouraged to pardon our enemies, to learn from them, to conquer them with love? I’m not interested in that kind of salvation, not fond of any kind of lesson in there. I like to keep my doubts, I like to settle my thoughts. I have no problem embracing scorn.
What’s tremendous about being subjected against your will is not the suffering or the subjection itself. It is grasping the fact that another person has control over you. They decide what you will hear, do, and feel. Is it love or is it pain?
Fear has a bitter cold taste, and it’s painful. It is always uninvited and unexpected and it leaves on its own terms. Fear makes us hurt ourselves, it overwhelms us. You can’t look at it, you can’t scape from it, you can’t divide it, and you can’t forget it.
Is it true that everyone you meet is fighting a greater battle than you? Is that why we have to be kind all the time? Plato leaves me perplexed sometimes.
When are struck by our own thanklessness? Pretty much never. We’re unbelievers, enamored of debris and the need of an audience. Even self-loathing becomes a narcissistic spectacle.
We are selectively and blindly ungrateful. We unconsciously decide who to appreciate and who to disown, and that usually changes each day. We are superficial by nature, only concerned with events and not with their consequences. We are selfish by nature, only concerned with people in relation to us and not from their own point of view.
We’re bad at remembering things, that’s why we write in the first place, and also that’s why we become artists, so we stop losing important information. I like to hold on to things I love after they’re gone.
Precautions become the law of the matter against beautiful hindrances. Our vocabulary is so limited when we address them, we repeat the same words until they weaken and die. On top of it, we are afraid of writing ill-written letters to them.
1 cup of secrets, 1/2 cup of anxiety, a tablespoon of disability. Stir and drink on an empty soul.
Loosen the hold of your last anchor and go away. Leave the slaughterhouse of time behind and get lost in the dust bowl. Your life is a mirage.
When I was a little kid I loved to eat my lunch at school under the huge climbing rose in the courtyard. I just loved to see and smell the roses.
Some of us are always in trouble, under suspicion. It doesn’t matter which way we go. It’s all the same
We die in proportion of the untold secrets we throw around us. The fuller that black box is, the less salvation we get. Put the case that our black box never really gets completely empty.
I admit nothing. I cannot express the essence of what cannot be possessed. Poetry doesn’t stop decay, it exacerbates it.
We label things and people out of desperation and self-doubt. We have to have a formula to explain our thoughts and feelings. We live bereaved lives.