Today.

“The same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever I go: I pretend interest in what matters nothing to me, I bestir myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere. What attracts me is elsewhere, and I don’t know where that elsewhere is.”

― Emil Cioran, The Trouble with Being Born

«من معتقدم که در این دنیای بزرگ دو نوع هنرمند داریم. دسته اول هنرمندای بدبخت و مفلوکی که سی سال طول میکشه تا بتونند یه باغ آلبالو رو بنویسند. اما دسته دوم هنرمندای خوشبخت و کامروایی که سه روز نشده یه باغ آلبالو رو می خورند.گوش کن ماریا، مزخرفترین کلمات دنیا امید و آینده است.»

- دو مرغابی در مه نوشته‌ی حسین پناهی

Life is just a shit thing to do

یه نیروی خیلی زیادی نیاز دارم تا سه چهار ماه آینده رو به خوبی بگذرونم چون حقیقتا با این حال روحی تا دستشویی رفتن هم برام سخته

نمی‌دونم منظورم رو می‌فهمید یا نه ولی تو یه برهه از زندگی میل بیشتری به نامرئی بودن دارید و متاسفانه همه‌چیز طوری پیش میره که باید مرئی تر از همیشه به زندگی ادامه بدید. بخاطر اینکه هنوز یه بخش کوچیکی ازتون وجود داره که می‌خواد زنده بمونه و اون بخش کوچیک شمارو محکوم به زیستن می‌کنه
زیستنی محدود و مصیبت‌بار

On March 23 1950 Italian poet Cesare Pavese wrote “Love is truly the great manifesto; the urge to be, to count for something, and, if death must come, to die valiantly, with acclamation—in short, to remain a memory. ” Five months later, he walked into a newspaper office and chose his obituary photograph from the photo archive. He checked himself into a hotel, and days later an employee found him stretched out on the bed, dead. He was fully dressed except for his shoes. On the bedside table were sixteen empty packets of sleeping pills and a note: “I forgive everyone and ask forgiveness of everyone. OK? Not too much gossip, please. ”

While I'm not sure taking off your shoes in a strange hotel room and swallowing too many sleeping pills is what I would call dying valiantly and with acclamation, it's the thought that counts.

Wubba Lubba Dub Dub

How do you control the urge of Disappearing?

I'm just having an allergic reaction to existence

I think about dying but I don't wanna die. Not even close. In fact my problem is the complete opposite. I want to live, I want to escape. I feel trapped and bored and claustrophobic. There's so much to see and so much to do but I smh still find myself doing nothing at all. I'm still here in this metaphorical bubble of existence and I can't quite figure out what the hell I'm doing or how to get out of it.

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