If I go crazy
and my mind is lost, will you
find me beautiful?
(Source: vashti, via levaduraa)
I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows or loves me completely. I have only myself.
Please understand that I don’t know. That I am clueless in concern of my own self. That my self is lacking. That my self is lacking reason. That my self is lacking concrete identity. That this, perhaps to the world, cannot possibly, for god’s sake!, it’s you, it’s you!, be true, but so I perceive it is as I feel it. So if I preach other than validity, made true or false by swayed source, how dare you argue? How dare you argue I am other than nothing? That I am special? That I am more than you or he or them? I am not, for “I” does not exist in this particular space in time.
sadpeach:
On the Tram
by Franz Kafka
I stand on the end platform of the tram and am completely unsure of my footing in this world, in this town, in my family. Not even casually could I indicate any claims that I might rightly advance in any direction. I have not even any defense to offer for standing on…
(Source: franzkafkastories.com, via ecofemme)
Our means of receiving impressions are absurdly few, and our notions of surrounding objects infinitely narrow. We see things only as we are constructed to see them, and can gain no idea of their absolute nature. With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend the boundlessly complex cosmos.
teenboystuff:
I have always wondered if I could get away with pasting one song worth of Circle Takes The Square lyrics in as an assignment and handing it in. I mean, who’d suspect…
The destructive character lives from the feeling, not that life is worth living, but that suicide is not worth the trouble.
A vision has seized hold of me, like the demented fury of a hound that has sunk its teeth into the leg of a deer carcass and is shaking and tugging at the downed game so frantically that the hunter gives up trying to calm him. It was the vision of a large steamship scaling a hill under its own steam, working its way up a steep slope in the jungle, while above this natural landscape, which shatters the weak and the strong with equal ferocity, soars the voice of Caruso, silencing all the pain and all the voices of the primeval forest and drowning out all birdsong. To be more precise: bird cries, for in this setting, left unfinished and abandoned by God in wrath, the birds do not sing; they shriek in pain, and confused trees tangle with one another like battling Titans, from horizon to horizon, in a steaming creation still being formed. Fog-panting and exhausted they stand in this unreal world, in unreal misery - and I, like a stanza in a poem written in an unknown foreign tongue, am shaken to the core.
-Werner Herzog, Conquest of the Useless: Reflections from the Making of Fitzcarraldo (via
pigsareharam)
(Source: saint-feral)
Things are sweeter when they’re lost. I know—because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly…And when I got it it turned to dust in my hands.
So, when these gentlemen say, ‘You are utopians, you anarchists are dreamers, your utopia would never work’, we must reply, ‘Yes, it’s true, anarchism is a tension, not a realisation, not a concrete attempt to bring about anarchy tomorrow morning’. But we must also be able to say but you, distinguished democratic gentlemen in government that regulate our lives, that think you can get into our heads, our brains, that govern us through the opinions that you form daily in your newspapers, in the universities, schools, etc., what have you gentlemen accomplished? A world worth living in? Or a world of death, a world in which life is a flat affair, devoid of any quality, without any meaning to it? A world where one reaches a certain age, is about to get one’s pension, and asks oneself, ‘But what have I done with my life? What has been the sense of living all these years?’
rachelguglielmelli:
Your eyes change minute to minute. Your beauty spreads itself out like a painted fan. The more I look, the more I see. Your beauty perches like a butterfly on a flower. But the flower is melting ice poison and the wings are razors. I reach to touch and the blood falls in silent drops. My feelings…
kryokatsquotes:
I collet samples of strangers’ spit. She yelled at him, “You fucked her, you fucker!” He walked out of the room muttering to himself. “What the fuck did you say?” she yelled. “I said that I’m unhappy. I’m unhappy in this place.” She started to cry and stamp her feet. “How dare you be unhappy!”…
