Isn’t it sad to go to your grave without ever wondering why you were born? Who, with such a thought, would not spring from bed, eager to resume discovering the world and rejoicing to be part of it?
Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus”
The obsession with suicide is characteristic of the man who can neither live nor die, and whose attention never swerves from this double impossibility.
[Here the heavy heart, there non omnis moriar—
just three little words, like a flight’s three feathers.
The abyss doesn’t divide us.]
The abyss surrounds us.
Wisława Szymborska, from “Autotomy”, translated by S. Barańczak and C. Cavanagh, in Poems New and Collected
The poet Wisława Szymborska died on the 1st February 2012 at the age of 88.(via the-final-sentence)
Having seen how lucidly and logically certain madmen
justify their lunatic ideas to themselves and to others,
I can never again be sure of the lucidness of my lucidity
I don’t have the prejudices many have today, I don’t believe in a naturalist world view. I don’t base my thinking on prejudices or a worldview and do not believe in materialism.
my phone’s dying and i’m sort of jealous
I walk around the school hallways and look at the people. I look at the teachers and wonder why they’re here. If they like their jobs. Or us. And I wonder how smart they were when they were fifteen. Not in a mean way. In a curious way. It’s like looking at all the students and wondering who’s had their heart broken that day, and how they are able to cope with having three quizzes and a book report due on top of that. Or wondering who did the heart breaking. And wondering why.
If the only thing keeping a person decent is the expectation of divine reward then, brother, that person is a piece of shit.
So therefore I dedicate myself to myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger - because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.
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