Tuesday, December 20, 2011

not knowing.

don't try, you'll find, was not your fault. the goal, reach out, the choice is yours to find.
design, you've got the life to guide. your faith decides, the world's your goal to find.
- amor fati, washed out


i keep trying to speak
but my words are stuck
like when the heart beats real fast
and the throat refuses
to do anything more than gulp in air
they won’t come.
and yet there is no silence.
never silent here.
always noise
of skin and bones rattling together.
and again.
i grab at my hair
and i try to scream
but no voice will escape me
i am the ghost of dreams past
and again.
dreamless, the skin and bones
will wither away
unthethered. unmoored.
lost in a nine-to-five series
of unimportant events.
and again.

and you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm.
no matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it:
it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. people will bleed there, and
you will bleed too.
hot, red blood. you'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

and once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive.
you won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. but one thing is certain.
when you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in.
that's what this storm's all about.

haruki murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

eventually it will break your heart.

bury your maps, they'll find all your pots and pans; cross all your hands, one finger at a time.
you'll be found in a land of savages, maybe you don't know what you've got.
husk to hide and i know, you're not spending your money on a desert rose
- holy dances and acronyms for bones
- holy dances, beach house


it's tangible, this silence
white-brick-wall solid.
sickening sickness,
spreading quietly
white-noise explosion
of white-brick-wall shards
alone. lonely.
alone. lonely.
beckoning. bickering.
beckoning. bickering.
disease. demise.
white-brick-wall solid.

every now and then i would feel a violent stab of loneliness. the very water i drink, the very air i breathe, would feel like
long sharp needles. the pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. i
would hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o clock in the morning.
haruki murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

Saturday, February 19, 2011

and when it's raining on the avenue, a wind will blow me back to you

take all your medicine, it's gonna make you well. you'll have to run till it's over
i'm sure you'll be able to tell, you'll know it's over for the rest of your life
you're gonna be high. come home. it's something less than a holiday,
when you come home.
-home, the great northern


does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of.
i never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent. i never thought about things at all, everything changed.
the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn’t the world,
it wasn’t the bombs and burning buildings. it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go.
is ignorance bliss? i don’t know, but it’s painful to think. and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me?
to what great place did thinking ever bring me? i think and think and think.
i’ve thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.
extremely loud and incredibly close, Jonathan Safran Foer