My whole life is a dark room. One, big, dark room.
Purity is an illusion. The idea of purity has been used as an excuse for calamities like honor killings, bride burnings, child molestation. Purification is genocide.
I suffer from life and from other people. I can’t look at reality face to face. Even the sun discourages and depresses me. Only at night and all alone, withdrawn, forgotten and lost, with no connection to anything real or useful — only then do I find myself and feel comforted.
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
I’m not interested in rules, or whether they are there or not.
Do you ever feel that way?”
“Restless. As if you haven’t really met yourself yet. As if you’d passed yourself once in the fog, and your heart leapt - ‘Ah! There I Am! I’ve been missing that piece!’ But it happens too fast, and then that part of you disappears into the fog again. And you spend the rest of your days looking for it.
I am an empty vessel… Full of lies, hate and envy. Full of incompetence, stupidity, thickheadedness.
Full of laziness, weakness and helplessness.
You are enough.
Paint it on your mirrors,
on the back of your eyelids,
drown it in your stomach,
sing it in every word you say.
You are never too much.
Eat your food,
sleep eight hours,
walk like you love yourself.
You are enough.
Say it in your sleep,
mantras to carry you through your day.
There is never enough of you.
You are a thirst that is never quenched.
I crave you when you’re away.
I love every piece of you.
But I cannot make you love yourself.
But I think it’s possible. In fact, I’m sure of it. While they’re still alive, people can become ghosts.
He is exhausted, and yet how full of energy; his eyes do not seem to have shed, but to have drunk, many tears, and yet they flame with a fire that could consume the whole world, but not a splinter of sorrow in his own breast; he is bowed down, and yet his youth portends a long life; his lips smile at the world, which does not understand him.