憂鬱

with a brand-new person but making the same old mistakes well i don’t care i’m in love stop before it’s too late

it suddenly seemed to me that i was lonely, that everyone was forsaking and going away from me.

the enormity of my desire disgusts me.

the word i.e., melancholy in and of itself is often misconstrued and people tend to shy away from expressing its verbiage. i hope people don't misinterpret the depth of melancholy i feel. not in a sorrowful or despairing way, no, my melancholic emotions are nuanced and cathartic. it is bittersweet, rich, and a reminiscent yearning of joy that still exists, and the fragile beauty of the human experience.

i am aware, sure i am aware. catastrophically aware.

misery gnaws to the bone, why then do we not despair?

void of dreams, i lie in mortal lethargy.

i feel more fellowship w the defeated than w saints. heroism and sanctity don't really appeal to me, i imagine. what interests me is being a man.

what would you do if you were stuck in one place and every day was exactly the same and nothing really mattered? AnoMessBot.t.me?start=MPsachf

forgiving who you are, for what you stand to gain just know that if you hide, it doesn't go away when you get out of bed, don't end up stranded horrified w each stone on the stage, my little dark age i grieve in stereo, the stereo sounds strange i know that if you hide, it doesn't go away if you get out of bed and find me standing all alone open eyed, burn the page, my little dark age all alone, open eyed, burn the page, my little dark age lyrics: little dark age – mgmt

the cause of my profound sense of incompatibility w others is, i believe, that most people think w their feelings, whereas i feel w my thoughts. for the ordinary man, to feel is to live and to think is to know how to live. for me, to think is to live and to feel is merely food for thought.

the limits of my language mean the limits of my world. logic pervades the world: the limits of the world are also its limits. so we cannot say in logic, the world has this in it and this, but not that.

the best often die by their own hand just to get away, and those left behind can never quite understand why anybody would ever want to get away from them.

from the moment that man believes neither in god nor in immortal life, he becomes responsible for everything alive for everything that born of suffering is condemned to suffer from life. it is he, and he alone who must discover law and order. then the time of exile begins, the endless search for justification, the aimless nostalgia, the most painful, the most heartbreaking question, that of the heart which asks itself: where can i feel at home?

the more i contemplate the spectacle of the world and the ever changing state of things, the more profoundly i'm convinced of the inherent fiction of everything, of the false importance exhibited by all realities. and in this contemplation (which has occurred to all thinking souls at one time or another), the colourful parade of customs and fashions, the complex path of civilizations and progress, the grandiose commotion of empires and cultures, all of this strikes me as a myth and a fiction dreamed among shadows and ruins but i'm not sure whether the supreme resolution of all these dead intentions (dead even when achieved) lies in the ecstatic resignation of the buddha, who once he understood the emptiness of things, stood up from his ecstasy saying, 'now i know everything', or in the jaded indifference of the emperor severus: 'omnia fui, nihil expedit', i.e., i have been everything, nothing is worth anything.

believe me, there is no such thing as great suffering, great regret, great memory. everything is forgotten even a great love. that's what's sad about life and also what's wonderful about it. there is only a way of looking at things, a way that comes to you every once in a while. that's why it's good to have had love in your life after all, to have had an unhappy passion. it gives you an alibi for the vague despairs (the persistent melancholy of being human) we all suffer from.

believe me, there is no such thing as great suffering, great regret, great memory. everything is forgotten even a great love. that's what's sad about life and also what's wonderful about it. there is only a way of looking at things, a way that comes to you every once in a while. that's why it's good to have had love in your life after all, to have had an unhappy passion. it gives you an alibi for the vague despairs we all suffer from.

NOTHING!

anyone can love a rose but it takes a lot to love a leaf. it's ordinary to love the beautiful but it's beautiful to love the ordinary.