March 20th, 2012
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Sometimes I think that the amount of time you live on earth is just an inverse reflection of how good you were in a previous existence: for example, infants who die from SIDS were actually great people when they were alive “for real,” so they get to go to heaven after a mere five weeks in purgatory. Meanwhile, anyone Willard Scott ever congratulated for turning 102 was obviously a terrible individual who had many, many previous sins to pay for and had to spend a century in his or her unknown purgatory (even though the person seemed perfectly wholesome in this particular world).
— Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story by Chuck Klosterman
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Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush.
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that sine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
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Sometimes I wish I could wake up and not feel that awful, familiar ball of gut wrenching dread at the thought of another day. Another day of smiling, pleases and thank yous, do this do that, grin and bear it, ‘I’m fine’, ‘Get your head out of the clouds.’ Another day of the same people and trivial problems and meaningless chatter and everyone’s talking and no one’s listening and no one’s looking and no one sees anything. Another day of daydreaming about the futures, another day of feeling helpless and stuck. I wish that would all go away so I could just be free to travel, do what I want, think for myself, do something that scares me every day.
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I don’t think you have to have a language in common with someone to have sexual rapport. But it helps if the language you don’t understand is Italian. I practically come listening to people speak Italian and I don’t understand it that well. When they say, “Are you hungry? Let’s go get some spaghetti,” i sounds like they are coming on to you. It’s really arousing. Sex can overcome the language barrier because it’s all body language anyway. But if you’re talking about having a long, meaningful relationship, forget it. I was really into this Italian guy and I had this fantasy about him. He lived in Rome with his mother. I sat there with a dictionary piecing together sentences and I finally realized that he was madly in love with me in three days and he wanted me to stay in Italy and marry him and have a baby right away. That wasn’t too appealing, but the sex was good. Sometimes when you can’t speak it kind of frees you up. They’re whispering all this shit in your ear and they could be talking about the theory of relativity for all you know. They could be calling you a cunt bitch whore from hell. They could be saying, “As soon as you come I’m going to kill you,” and you’re yelling, “Yes! Yes!”
I was happy but “happy” is an adult word. You don’t have to ask a child about happiness, you see it. They are or they are not. Adults talk about being happy because largely they are not. Talking about it is the same as trying to catch the wind. Much easier to let it blow all over you. This is where I disagree with the philosophers. They talk about passionate things but there is no passion in them. Never talk happiness with a philosopher.
— Jeanette Winterson
Mental imbalance is about as acceptable as herpes. It’s never going to be accepted. But really, it’s a disease just like cancer. It just happens, and eats away all the good parts of your brain, like judgment and happiness and perception and memory and life. And you can die from depression just like any other disease. And it’s not as if people choose it. So why is it still a joke of medicine. “She died of cancer” is a lot more socially acceptable to people than “She committed suicide.” Why?
— Sarahbeth PurcellEverything he saw became a symbol of his own existence, from a rabbit caught in headlights to raindrops racing down a window-pane. Perhaps it was a sign that he was going to be poet or a philosopher: the kind of person who, when he stood on the sea-shore, didn’t see waves breaking on a beach, but saw the surge of human will or the rhythms of copulation, who didn’t hear the sound of the tide but heard the eroding roar of time and the last mourning sigh of humanity fizzing into nothingness. But perhaps it was a sign, he also thought, that he was turning into a pretentious wanker.
— The Liar by Stephen FryNo bullshit. But I never leave the house without a mix for anything: Falling in love. Witnessing a death. Disappointment. Impatience. Traffic. I carry a mix for any human condition. Anything really good or bad that happens to me, and my way to not overreact—like, to distance my emotions— is to locate the exact perfect soundtrack for that moment.
— Rant by Chuck Palahniuk
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I’ve been giving up on people too easily. If they don’t call, if they don’t try–then I doubt. It’s not fair to lay the blame on them when I’m not calling either. I’m just as much at fault. I’ve got a lot of resentment for old friends–for letting me go without a fight. I just want someone to call and say “I miss you, how are you?” I just want to call someone and say “I miss you, I’m sorry?” I want to be brave enough to stay in one place.
