Posts tagged Estella
Parting has no remedy. You remain silent until you speak, and then the space in your lungs is left empty. We win a victory over nothingness. Nobody cares. If we die in proportion of the words we toss around, then our resting ground is really meaningless. Just turn the lights off before you leave.– Page read by SMARANDA LUNA.
Everything is nothing. No one sees majesty and charm in you and me once the freshness of our bodily youth wilts. People only see indescribable sadness. We become invisible and useless. All this ruin…– Page read by VANESSA PLACE.
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 don’t even remember when I started my first journal. I don’t know how old I was. I used to fill pages after pages about things I lived or I wanted to live, feelings I felt or I wanted to feel. I have not stopped writing on journals ever since.
For some people, the passion for the absurd is the only thing that gives meaning to life. They love the absolute useless, they enjoy the poisonous things, every surprise is a painful surprise, every experience is a new chance for torture. They are usually nice and sweet, fun to be around, but lonely. I think I’ve been one of those people in the past.
My grandma used to raise turkeys. Sometimes, as a treat during the cold months, she used to give them bread crumbs soaked in wine, and a single peppercorn each. They were not sulky or booby birds. They were happy turkeys. I created this page in her memory.
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