dirtnaplr

[dirtnaplr]

As time passes, everything is starting to make more sense, but at the same time everything is losing its meaning.

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"She was so much better at being alone; being alone came more naturally to her. She led a life of deliberate solitude, and if occasional loneliness crept in, she knew how to work her way out… Or even better, how to sink in and absorb its particular comforts." – Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney, The Nest

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“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” — Cesar Cruz

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“I have suffered a lot. And these spectacles that used to fill me with calmness and serenity only arouse in me the lassitude of old sadness. I no longer hope for the future. I do not believe in myself any longer. I no longer know how to nourish myself on my past.” — Albert Camus

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“Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering.” — Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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I left a piece of my heart with each and every cat I've ever met.

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" I’ve been trying to go home my whole life—” — Chelsea Dingman

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When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.” ― Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

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Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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" …But you mustn’t be sad about my sadness…I know I’ve done everything to detach you from me, and all my life when someone has become attached to me, I’ve done everything to make them back off." — Albert Camus

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" Within me all was chaos and darkness, turbulent and wild, sense impressions all too strong, devoid of concepts. Without concepts, of course, our impressions remain in the form of “raw experience”, not subjected to the clarity, order and discipline of thought. My life was for many, many years a long journey in the land of Chaos. " — Jens Bjørneboe

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"There’s a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return. I suspect that whenever I articulate my thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden." — The Painted Bird (Jerzy Kosinski)

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“I overcame myself, the sufferer; I carried my own ashes to the mountains; I invented a brighter flame for myself.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

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To feel empty inside — and even more, to feel how you’re being emptied. To get accustomed with your initial shape, to embrace your origin, the space you were before you were. To feel how you’re transposed into nothingness. To become less, to feel less, to get systematically diminished. To accede the eternity that, odd enough, is not, and still is. To merge your being with the void, with that primordial immensity. To fuse with the vacuity means to be infinite. Not to be means to be eternal.

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“There are a few things in life so beautiful they hurt: swimming in the ocean while it rains, reading alone in empty libraries, the sea of stars that appear when you’re miles away from the neon lights of the city, bars after 2am, walking in the wilderness, all the phases of the moon,and all the things we do not know about the universe.” — Beau Taplin

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“At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face.” ―Albert Camus

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❝ The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidates who reminded them most of themselves. I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn't understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. ― Charles Bukowski.