Awake When I'm Sleeping

In such a world of conflict, a world of victims and executioners, it is the job of thinking people, as Albert Camus suggested, not to be on the side of the executioners.

In the winter I am writing about, there was much darkness. Darkness of nature, darkness of event, darkness of the spirit. The sprawling darkness of not knowing. We speak of the light of reason. I would speak here of the darkness of the world, and the light of _______. But I don’t know what to call it. Maybe hope. Maybe faith, but not a shaped faith—only, say, a gesture, or a continuum of gestures. But probably it is closer to hope, that is more active, and far messier than faith must be. Faith, as I imagine it, is tensile, and cool, and has no need of words. Hope, I know, is a fighter and a screamer.

For how long can humans stay inside a poem?

"Only the sorrow of going to sleep and waking up, feeling life without knowing where it comes from, aware that it will flee without knowing why it was given to you, why it is taken from you. Here you are: there is this and this and this. And now, enough.”

You say to the boy open your eyes

Toward world's end, through the bare

There are two ways to escape suffering it.The first is easy: accept the inferno & become part of it that you can no longer see it.The second: seek & learn to recognize who and what, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space.

I'm not exactly sure which wound is the one I belong to.

In a general way it’s very difficult for one to become remarkable.

I am tortured by my heart which they say is my mind. (…) I have no mind. / It hurt me too much.

I think when you've been in one place long enough, it starts to feel like that's the whole world, you know? Seeing anything beyond it is hard. Like, it doesn't even feel possible? And I think a part of me has been fighting to keep things that way in my life. Uncomplicated and easy. Which I guess is a kind of safety.

“I am tired of measure, control, doing the right thing. A part of me would like to tear something apart and howl like a wolf.”

What is left Of me is a shadow Among shadows

You say it doesn't mean a blessed thing, but don't you see—that's what I want. That's what I envy.

what is your heart doing now?

Don't ever forget, that the least fascist among fascists also are fascists.