My mind and body conform to a full schedule. Psychedelia pervades each experience as the unconscious takes shape in peripheral view. Pieces, many of them, to a puzzle I assemble in quiet. That there is only one moment, only one question, it drives me home. and drives me to madness. Peering through the elegant and textured illusion of time, I feel both the birth and death of individuated consciousness. self. self-hood has long haunted me. I used to long for release, to breathe free from this state of separation. It is neurosis that holds me here, and poetry which makes experience bearable. My instincts are to shut my eyes, heart and mind. To keep safe that which has accumulated in the cellar of my collected experience. More and more, this is not possible. I can hardly remember what it was like to live a singular life as I now live through the hands and hearts of many. I have vague memory of dreams, ambitions and fears. The Dream that rages around and through me is wearing away at every edifice I’d carefully constructed. My sense of love is no longer filtered through intellectual and philosophical conceptions. It is a fierce and unforgiving torrent that I gasp for breath within. I surrender.
(Source: occults, via sataniclovemachine)
This is why I eat with my bare hands, from plastic take out containers I’ve saved from the trash and why many of my cups are old pickle or salsa jars. The world’s resources is so valuable, and convenience has little.
(Source: stumbleupon.com, via violent-buddhist)
I peed blood yesterday morning, which actually lessened the pain I was in. I imagined my bladder filling with blood as Peter held my hand on the way to the clinic. Gasping, and breathing through clenched teeth (which sounds a bit like slurping) I stretched an arm out to the angels of mercy (receptionists) and willed them to call my number. Peter, if I die today…. “tell your mom you say hi?” he filled in. Yes. and memorialize the magic card deck you made for me. Joon informed me earlier this week that it only takes two years after you’ve died for the mourning to stop. The pink shade of my urine in the sample cup was amusing enough to lighten my mood. I used the rest of my meagre savings to buy the antibiotics. The hysteria left me with a reminder of just how beautiful catastrophe is. I’m a hypochondriac. Between being unable to walk due to both the physical pain and the power of my own imagination in the face of uncertainty, I laughed hard enough that I almost pissed my pants in the walk-in clinic waiting room.
Now, I am urinating much like a regular person would (use your imagination) at regular intervals in the day. I’ve made a nest in bed. Six blankets surround me and within their folds are hidden every thing I could possibly need for the next couple of hours. This computer is nestled in to the blanket covered in sunflowers that I received for my twelfth and was a signal of my becoming a woman. I can now return to reading American Gods, basking in the glow of having degraded the dignified image you once held of me.
(via commondense)
i long for you in silence. anything else would be disrespect.
(Source: p1ss, via welldressedfortheapocalypse)
++alfredo fuchs
Though you sit beneath a placid mask, I know well of the screams that echo through the halls of your mind.
Hi. How are you?
(Source: somedevil, via welldressedfortheapocalypse)
sofia ajram
Not the moment itself, but the beauty therein when you recognize and accept that no one has ever looked at and seen who you are. To know that it is only to the extent that you are an actress that anyone has ever felt at home in your presence. Your ego is wounded, but your heart glows with confidence in the knowledge that you can make anyone.feel.loved. With enough drama, you might even convince yourself. Power like this is enough to make a nap look attractive.
it was you who taught me how to be selfish, just as i showed you how to be dull.
how unnatural it feels to follow my own intuition.
i no longer ask for forgiveness, or even for the suffering to be eased
please send gratitude.
can a single soul left breathe?
(via sixsixsik)
Compassion and modesty have always beamed from sources of depth and intelligence. I now direct your attention towards your own attitude towards “stupidity”. Such irony, that your ignorance should exclaim itself in this way.
(Source: albertcoupon, via rejectmediocrity)
eyes widen in pain.
all that remains is love.
unconditional forgiveness,
without beauty pain does not exist.
(via itisnotthejediway)
this is the price you pay for speaking your mind.
and him, he put his entire soul in to his art. now he sits alone and wonders why it enjoys a romantic night on the town. the woman he loves kisses it, instead of him.