all sorts of unpleasant emotions. the fear, the worries; fear of fear, fear of life, the awareness of the inability to admit it to anyone;
as if there’s no one to admit it to > a curious sense of being entirely alone amidst a large number of mindless robots lacking any touch of humanity. the loneliness seems to have a peculiar intensity when the night breaks in
I feel that all anxiety has become too much - one breaks up, another one takes its place;
the strain of these past weeks has a very unusual effect, like I’ve been sent back in time eons ago; a small child that has had rather a tearful day - I feel I only have left some energy to want to be put to bed by someone else;
curiously eased by lying down on the floor in the darkened room; as if I’m resting in someone’s arms
(Source: scifiplanes, via blogtruenorth)
somewhere out there there are people who are happy; I know, it’s a perfectly real occurrence, one that occurs frequently enough to be worth allocating a particular word in each language (at least I suppose so);
It is very weird on a quiet night to see that beyond all this ever-growing intricate costumery, instead of thousands of words, actually there are so few truths to face;
distances, and memories alike, alleviate and expiate; beyond them - the agony, the life
it is now growing dusk; in every possible way;
my thoughts recur to old disappointments, to the constant fear that I probably grossly misrepresent each of my daily escapades; I feel correspondingly disconsolate and perplexed and lost; just a tired man grown cynical after years of futile losses and dashed hopes;
the tide has apparently turned in my favour, Gods are merciful; and their irony unmistakably deadly: everything seems now too little, too empty, too late
(Source: dahmerson, via rustmuseum-deactivated20181109)
looking fixedly at the lights of the city, now blurry and distant; I know, after 14888 days a lot of things should have become clearer; it appears I’ve been too busy with surviving myself. ha-ha
Sunday night mood; feeling at the same time both despair towards a death that doesn’t come and complete availability to live one thousand lives within one single deadly time;
hope exists - there are always ways out; is there a better frame wherein to arrange the most immediate experiences? is this everything there is?
Alberto Giacometti Place 1948
Photographic print with colour dyes ,taken at Moma New York 1998
(via modijeanne)
I’ve driven today about 1000 miles - my math, probably grossly inaccurate (but right now I’m too lazy to look on a map) - from Romania to Italy, at Mestre, and back - and, honestly, the whole thing with Europe makes sense as long as there are fictional borders and a large majority of people who backs them;
you can easily accept you’re a part (albeit an insignificant one) of a certain cultural space having clearly drawn boundaries; it seems much more complicated to see yourself as a very important part of a well-ordered bigger whole; freedom is awkward
I know I will have to surrender at some point; after all, life is an unpleasant business in which I have to bow to all sorts of elements; winds and rains and emotions and haphazard occurrences;
and all those matters with regard to which I am not disposed to make any concession at any rate, all of them so ambiguous, so unbelievably fragile;
seemingly calculated to make me feel stranger in a strange land
late at night, I’m tired; spending day after day being at the same time in tune with the group and hostile to it; at the same time at war with they and at war with myself - is exhausting; the way of all flesh, one might add…
what makes the overall situation at least bearable is an inner disponibility to invest in curiosity and exploration even when the subject is painful or apparently empty; and, of course, the real possibility to build; stories, landscapes, bridges
![abandonedandurbex:
“The Green Line demarcation zone, Beirut, Lebanon 1982 [485x704]
”](https://66.media.tumblr.com/611ae0cce2016ea4d75c04879dbc702c/tumblr_p9uyoxX8MZ1uky4nio1_500.jpg)
The Green Line demarcation zone, Beirut, Lebanon 1982 [485x704]
—
The 9.9 Percent Is the New American Aristocracy (via johnborthwick)
[when you have time, this is worth a reading]
— Spinoza, Ethics IIp30 (via scowlofminerva-blog)