Those who hate most fervently must have once loved deeply; those who want to deny the world must have once embraced what they now set on fire.
Kurt Tucholsky (via corona-borealis)
Tag: lit
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the train stopped on the way home today
The train has suddenly stopped. Stopped in its tracks on the way home. I sit calmly amidst the tense frenzied air. I am always the peace in the middle of others’ chaos. I press my face against the cold glass, breath of fury condensing on the windowpane. Quiet fury. Euphoric fury. Wild contemplation. What if the train falls off its rails and I slowly watch as the ground reaches closer to the train window and I see as the cement road reaches out and shatters the glass and throws a fist into my nose so that the bones in my face break and the glass punctures my eyes out and my body crushes into a bloody mess in between the train and the road? I smile. I would fall out through this machine vessel, a bluejay soaring through the blue sky, and fall asleep as I touch the ground. Oh, pure emancipation. Sanguine liberation. Bloody fucking freedom. Bloody. Fucking. The fucking from behind as the train thrusts into death. And at the height of its fall, at the climax of its fall, at the highest note of the fat opera singer’s verse, I would reach orgasm. And that would truly be the purest end of all.
The fact that I can relate so clearly to this thought pattern is scary…
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I often think of the boys who were attracted to me simply out of the virtue that I was introspective and elusive. They didn’t want to be with me because of my questionable beauty, my wavering intellect, or my neutral morality. It was primarily because I was dramatic in my constant reflections. Everyone, regardless of their good or bad humour, has a place deep down in which they question their existence and their inherent value. The size of this place differs from person to person, but it is nearly always there, to even a minuscule degree. And here is me, who is nearly totally filled with this place, whose quotidian inner monologues consist almost solely of “Why am I alive?” and “Why won’t I die?” I suppose many people find refuge in someone whose very existence is defined in this questioning, and in a sense someone like me can reflect that loneliness and pain that is so common in everyone. Perhaps I am a temporary relief, a bandage for your loneliness. I am a form of comfort, of release, in your infrequent quests for appropriation. And yet, one can only be introspective for so long, and that is why people grow tired of me. Initially, I give an air of quiet desperation. Since with me, every moment seems to carry the gravity of eons of absolution. This adds virtue and magnitude to your being. But in the end, we all become exhausted with purpose. In the end, we all want the complacency of boredom. And that is why most people forget me after a while.
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Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishing.
Anaïs Nin (via decrepito)
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He who doesn’t understand a stare, won’t understand a long explanation.
Arabian Proverb (via cordisre)