«Everyone saw in my face evil traits that I didn’t possess. But they assumed I did, and so they developed. I was modest, and was accused of being deceitful: I became secretive. I had a strong sense of good and evil; instead of kindness I received nothing but insults, so I grew resentful. I was gloomy, other children were merry and talkative. I felt myself superior to them, but was considered inferior: I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me, so I learned to hate. My colorless youth was spent in a struggle with myself and with the world. Fearing mockery, I buried my best feelings at the bottom of my heart: there they died.»
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the state you’ll find me in
Forwarded from Honey pie
when ocean vuong said "this mess i made i made with love" and raymond carver said "would i live my life over again? make the same unforgivable mistakes? yes, given half the chance. yes" and you realize that the imperfection is what makes your life what it is. iain reid said "everything's both ethereal and clunky" and virginia woolf said "the beauty of the world which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder" and it is really a blessing to live on the light and the dark and have everything meet in the middle. and sometimes it's night and it's raining so hard and it's getting worse and worse and you wonder if it's really worth it to stay. but then in the morning the sun rises and there's a rainbow and it's so quiet. and the sky lives for no one but itself and the birds are singing and you are experiencing something so lovely and mary oliver was right to say "it is a serious thing to just be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world" and you are learning how to live.
I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being...not seeming, but being. Conscious at every moment. Vigilant. At the same time, the chasm between what you are to others and to yourself. The feeling of vertigo and the constant desire to, at last, be exposed...to be seen through, cut down, perhaps even annihilated. Every tone of voice is a lie, every gesture a falsehood, every smile a grimace. Commit suicide? No, that’s vulgar. You don’t do that. But you can be immobile. You can fall silent. Then, at least, you don’t lie. You can close yourself in, shut yourself off. Then you don’t have to play roles, show any faces, or make false gestures. Or so you thought. But reality is bloody-minded. Your hiding place isn’t watertight. Life seeps in everything. You’re forced to react. No one asks if it’s real or unreal, if you’re true or false. Such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either. I understand your keeping silent, your immobility. That you’ve placed this lack of will into a fantastic system. I understand. I admire you. You should go on with this until it’s played out, until it’s no longer interesting. Then you can leave it, just as you’ve left your other parts one by one.