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.

تو بات ناشناس ازم درباره زبان انگلیسی و منابعش سوال می‌پرسید
اونوقت این انگلیسی خوده منه:

آقای ماسه ای برایم رویا بیاور

«اما اين زمين بيگناه نيست و مادر گناهكاران است و گاهوارهء همه‌ی آتشها و گلوله ها و خونها و شلاقها است و من او را نمى بخشم زيرا ريشه هاى درخت من از خاك سياه اون غذا مى گيرند و از چشمه هاى زهرآلود او آب مى نوشند و سرانجام در بستر او خواهند پوسيد.»

- ملکوت نوشته‌ی بهرام صادقی

Life is all about losing friends, the people you know. So, just that you get better at finding the ones worth suffering for.

-The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath