same old fears

“Não há silêncio bastante Para o meu silêncio. Nas prisões e nos conventos Nas igrejas e na noite Não há silêncio bastante Para o meu silêncio. Os amantes no quarto. Os ratos no muro. A menina Nos longos corredores do colégio. Todos os cães perdidos Pelos quais tenho sofrido: O meu silêncio é maior Que toda solidão E que todo o silêncio.”

“I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.”

What matters is precisely this; the unspoken at the edge of the spoken.

My anti-social tendencies, even with people I know well, are going to be very strained – unless I get drunk. And I don’t feel like it. Shall read a little and try another sleep later. Don’t mind really as long as I don’t have to lie there in the dark and chase after my mind.

All alone she was. All alone with her soul. She lived on the top of a solitary hill. Her house was small, and bare, and alone too. She seemed like a creature of the forest herself, sometimes. She walked with a swift silent tread. She spoke to no one. No one spoke to her.

When I am silent, I have thunder hidden inside.

It’s so difficult to describe depression to someone who’s never been there, because it’s not sadness. I know sadness. Sadness is to cry and to feel. But it’s that cold absence of feeling— that really hollowed-out feeling.

I just love that feeling when things are about to change. Like when you know that in a few seconds you’re going to do something and become someone else.

People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones.

​“It’s not that I’m tired, as I may have said. It really is that I’m now empty. Too empty to be part.”

Whosoever is delighted in solitude, is either a wild beast or a god