i don’t know if i love you anymore
or if i miss the part of me i lost
when you walked away.
that blew through your room,
your breath on my arm.
“Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.” —Anaïs Nin (via caroinwonderland)
our souls are also flesh.
the shepherd leads the flock in the direction of their slaughter.
- It all seems so pointless sometimes. i don't write for sympathy, but for expression. i write many things full of sunny existentialism. sometimes i don't, and the difference is mood and circumstance. the situation is always the same, you get juiced up on the high. and it's all highs. the low comes on the other end. love or booze or heroin or hate, it's all the same. i'm not particularly sad, just numb. get high on this. crash. the noise no longer holds my interest. guts. concrete. shit. words. so what? and i don't feel sad. and i am grateful for that. do your thing. whatever that is, and give yourself to it. that is my mantra in this impermanent madhouse. and only you can do it.