Sentimental with Sentiments

That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency, has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.
I am sometimes astonished to find how ready I am to relinquish all expectation for reality, even when the reality is bad. My God, if any of it could be shared! But would it exist then, would it exist? No, it is possible only at the price of aloneness.
I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep down I just wanted to be a poem.
Of all the forces, love is the strangest.

reality, feeling, coarse emotion of mankind, quickest of us, expectation, ordinary human life, forces, love, price of aloneness, grass, squirrel, heart, element of tragedy, fact of frequency, keen vision, stupidity, frames, roar, silence, God, poet, poem

21 %

Unreadability of this
world. All doubles.
The strong clocks
back the fissure-hour,
hoarsely.
You, wedged into your deepest,
climb out of yourself
for ever.
Illegibility of this
World. All twice-over.
Robust Clocks
agree the Cracked-Hour,
hoarsely.
You, clamped in your Depths,
climb out of yourself
for ever.
And the air is new. And everything, instant by instant, is as it is, preparing to appear.  This is the only way I can live now. To be reborn moment by moment.  I die at every instant, and I am reborn, new and without memories: live and whole, no longer inside myself, but in every thing outside.
If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.
Art is an experience, not an object.
You can’t change what has already happened, so don’t waste your time thinking about it. Move on, let go, and get over it.
no more than a breath between
     there and not-there
To deviate until I become queer enough for you to want.

experience, reborn moment, fissure-hour, Cracked-Hour, strong clocks, Robust Clocks, memories, Art, object, air, Unreadability, world, doubles, Illegibility, Depths, way, thing, book, reading, ca, time, breath

81 %

If he sees his fellow-man die, a living man can no longer exist except out of himself
I’ve never understood the reasons for his disappearance on me; realizing lately I’ve never know him truly.
People think you’re crazy if you talk about things they don’t understand.
I don’t know why. At least I don’t think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I don’t think it matters.
a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.
You have to learn to not get attached to everyone who tries to talk to you.
I realize now that it was a certain apathy, rather than peace, that turned my acts and my desires to ash.
We must be very humble. We must see the beauty of quietness.
Nothing is more honest than a dream.
I defend
Not my voice, but my silence.

brightness, acts, peace, living man, fellow-man, reasons, disappearance, dream, beauty of quietness, voice, silence, desires, ash, certain apathy, darkness shining, People, things

98 %

Hold onto them with everything you have.
May you
fall in love
with someone,
who makes
your soul sing.
We adore chaos, because we love to produce order.
But above all: How are you supposed to spare yourself?
And overpowered by memory both men gave way to grief.
And at what point do you stop being a part of me? At what point do I stop loving you? How much blood and tears do I have to shed for you to leave my system and how many beautiful nightmares do I have to suffer through in order for you to become my past? At what point? Because I’m. Tired.
learn to accept compliments. no one thinks you’re vain; they complimented you for a reason!! accepting it can help you boost your self esteem.

beautiful nightmares, system, memory, grief, love, fall, order, blood, tears, self esteem, Hold, soul, chaos, point, compliments, reason

87 %

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.
The human body essentially recreates itself every six months. Nearly every cell of hair and skin and bone dies and another is directed to its former place. You are not who you were last November.
You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw–but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of–something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clapclap of water against the boat’s side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it–tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest–if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say ‘Here at last is the thing I was made for.’ We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.
Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.
Nobody is special. Nobody gets a pass. Everything dies. Everything. You were born with a terminal disease, just like everything else that has ever existed. You, your lamp, the sun, and the Bee Gees all have that in common. This, like the universe’s apathy, is neither good nor bad. It is simply a fact. But this fact – the immutable, inevitable, impossibly obvious fact we will die as surely as we were born – is something we all deny for most of our lives. You’d think we’re never going to die, the way we cower and second-guess and fret over each little action. We act like what we do today will forever alter the flow of creation, of time, of space.

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10 %