fucking cool shit

“In fact, neither reader nor writer nor lover achieves such consummation. The words we read and the words we write never say exactly what we mean. The people we love are never just as we desire them. The two symbola never perfectly match. Eros is in between.”

Yet, there’s a quiet kind of loneliness in all this. To hunger for minds that meet yours fully, fiercely, and without flinching, is to be reminded, often, of their rarity. It’s not just about being understood; it’s about being engaged, challenged, and courted in the language of thought. Intellectual intimacy isn’t always easy to find, but it’s even harder to sustain. Sometimes it feels like you’re always one layer too deep for the room, waiting for someone who won’t flinch at the weight of your references or the vulnerability of your curiosity.  To crave that kind of communion is to live slightly haunted, and it sustains my fascination with ghosts, as I’m always searching for the next mind that might see me, really see me, beneath the surface of my words.

Yet, there’s a quiet kind of loneliness in all this. To hunger for minds that meet yours fully, fiercely, and without flinching, is to be reminded, often, of their rarity. It’s not just about being understood; it’s about being engaged, challenged, and courted in the language of thought. Intellectual intimacy isn’t always easy to find, but it’s even harder to sustain. Sometimes it feels like you’re always one layer too deep for the room, waiting for someone who won’t flinch at the weight of your references or the vulnerability of your curiosity.  To crave that kind of communion is to live slightly haunted, and it sustains my fascination with ghosts, as I’m always searching for the next mind that might see me, really see me, beneath the surface of my words.

You said if people wanted to change the world, they would. You said most people like it this way. Too bad for them, I say. I want something else. But you know how I am. I push too hard. I get ahead of myself. I keep ruining everything I touch by turning it into gold. But I’m learning how to be gentle. Even to the vampires, poor little things. Save me save me love me love me there’s a hole in my bucket etcetera. They don’t know what they want but I give it to them anyway because why the hell not? Love, love, go ahead and have another plate of it, it doesn’t run out. Of course, I wonder if they love me back, which is, really, besides the point. I don’t do it to be adored, I do it because my love keeps getting bigger and that’s what happens.