a public journal: a series of first steps, missteps, standstills, and starting overs.

We die to each other daily.
What we know of other people
Is only our memory of the moments
During which we knew them. And they have changed since then.
To pretend that they and we are the same
Is a useful and convenient social convention
Which must sometimes broken. We must also remember
That at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party (via bookmania)

your god is too safe.

… playing with fire because otherwise it’s cold,
and lonely,
and numbing.

tpo, Methods of Melancholia

fighting for oneself, at the expense of oneself.

"We are all thieves," she says. "Your breath is no more important than theirs—and even if it were, it’s not yours anyway; none of this is."

We are all thieves. Everything I’ve sought to attain—everything I’ve sought to accomplish: whether given, or stolen, I still parade it around as if it were all mine. And when someone threatens that, everything goes up in flames to protect my territory and all will burn. Even myself, if I have to.

But my sanity is not my own. My stability is not my own. My dignity… is not… my own. My glory will fade like the grass, and it will wither ever faster if I kindle this demand for mutuality—or, more ideally, respect—any longer.


we are all thieves.


Perhaps I have been led here to become nothing, or I’ve been brought here to become everything…. I feel like a raindrop falling onto dry earth where the splash is ecstasy then quickly nothing.


there is a fatigue in living life distanced from it and there is a fatigue in living life so immersed in it that you lose yourself to its ocean and is it drowning or is it aggrandizing in merging with something greater than just the entity of “you”? either way, it’s hard to see: far-sightedness or near-sightedness, i just want to see. clearly.

there are much more noteworthy themes than hopeless romanticism but i cant seem to write well on any of them.

We drank, we ate, we sang. The Bible bade us rejoice during the seven days of the feast, to be happy. But our hearts were not in it. Our hearts had been beating more rapidly for some days. We wished the feast were over, so that we should not have to play this comedy any longer.

ew, Night

… every question possesse[s] a power that d[oes] not lie in the answer.

ew, from Night