Death is extraordinarily like life when we know how to live. You cannot live without dying. You cannot live if you do not die psychologically every minute. This is not an intellectual paradox. To live completely, wholly, everyday as if it were a new loveliness, there must be a dying to everything of yesterday, otherwise you live mechanically, and a mechanical mind can never know what love is or what freedom is.
J. Krishnamurti, Freedom from the Known
I,etcetera
stuff I like
(Source: kevc, via natashakills)
(via slekes)
Cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark. The less I needed, the better I felt.
Charles Bukowski
The artist often looks and feels like a loser or a child or a haunted slave and helpless master.
Charles Baxter
(Source: quod.lib.umich.edu)
(Source: versuche2011)
(via versuche2011)
We’re all dreamers; we don’t know who we are.
Some machine made us; machine of the world, the constricting family.
Then back to the world, polished by soft whips.
We dream; we don’t remember.
Machine of the family: dark fur, forests of the mother’s body.
Machine of the mother: white city inside her.
And before that: earth and water.
Moss between rocks, pieces of leaves and grass.
And before, cells in a great darkness.
And before that, the veiled world.
This is why you were born: to silence me.
Cells of my mother and father, it is your turn
to be pivotal, to be the masterpiece.
I improvised; I never remembered.
Now it’s your turn to be driven;
you’re the one who demands to know:
Why do I suffer? Why am I ignorant?
Cells in a great darkness. Some machine made us;
it is your turn to address it, to go back asking
what am I for? What am I for?
- Louise Glück
(Source: donttalkbutobserve, via middlechildcomplex)
Wake Up To The Sun, Woodstock.
(via coffeexandxcigarettes)
Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.
Jack Kerouac (via likeafieldmouse)
from Gabe Foreman, “Dish Bitches”
Every boomerang I toss
wobbles off to clobber a neighbour.My stack of stapled job apps
circles back to chain me to this sink of steel—elbow-deep in foaming pots
scraping veal and apricotsfrom dented pans and countertops …
Half-asleep at work, I’m dreamingjungle rivers, sleeping with a tiger,
not holding down a jobthat goes nowhere,
chops the air,and wanders back into your hands.
willy-nilly.It can never be satisfied, the mind,
not really.
(via ryecroft)
First page of a handwritten draft of Infinite Jest by David Foster WallaceThe longest journey begins with the first step….
(Source: writing2011)
