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A new color. A totally alien, unique, nameless thing, half seen, half felt or…tasted. A blaze of something frightening, yet overwhelmingly, compelling.
A half known mystery beautiful and complex. A deep, impossibly sensuous promise.
Octavia Butler, Lilith’s Brood (via butimnotbrilliant)
In general, I know that when speaking of private and opposing worlds, one tends to refer to divided, sometimes even irreconcilable facets of personality or of the spirit, each with its corresponding secret value and its psychological, metaphysical, political, or simply practical- or even pathological- content. But in my case there was neither a moral nor existential disjunctive, what was more, I saw that my two worlds weren’t separated in an equal or reciprocal way; neither did one world linger in the shadows or in private as the flip side of the other, the visible one, who knows which; nor would they seek to impose themselves over the other or to merge as one, but force or not, as tends to occur in these cases. Nothing of the sort; they seemed a nearly abnormal example of coexistence, of adaptive tendency and of absolute absence of contrasts. I took all this into consideration, and it seemed worrisome and insoluble… But an instant later I resigned myself, thinking that when all was said and done I ought to bow to these conditions, because just as we cannot choose our moment to be born, we also know nothing of the variable worlds we’ll inhabit.
Sergio Chejfec, “My Two Worlds”
To walk and nothing but. Not to walk without a destination as modern characters have been pleased to do, attentive to the novelties of chance and the terrain, but instead to distant destinations, nearly unreachable or inaccessible ones, putting maps to the test.
Sergio Chejfec’s “The Planets”

i basically am mad with rage rn.

some of it because am just a running ball of wrath but also because i hate the inbred self congratulatory dysphoria of this motherfucking community of tossers. 

i hate everything about the writing i see on my main dash.

i hate the soppy emo hijinks. i hate the vapid housewife poetry run through a word generator. i hate the convenient milking of non existent personal tragedies for accolades. i hate the tired metaphors. i hate the obese proclamations of faux artistry. i hate the garrulous rites of validation. i hate the passive aggressive sly blogging.

i hate that i don’t know exactly how did i ever come to be in the midst of this mindfuck. 

i had a more peaceful and relevant space for expression in 2012. 

My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
Theodore Roethke, In a Dark Time
You are the partner of her loneliness, the unspeaking center of her monologues. With each disclosure you encompass more and she stretches beyond what limits her, to hold you
Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies
May my silences become more accurate.
Theodore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Theodore Roethke, The Waking
Who speaks of victory? To endure is all.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any misery, any depression, since after all you don’t know what work these conditions are doing inside you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where all this is coming from and where it is going? Since you know, after all, that you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change. If there is anything unhealthy in your reactions, just bear in mind that sickness is the means by which an organism frees itself from what is alien; so one must simply help it to be sick, to have its whole sickness and to break out with it, since that is the way it gets better
Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
How paltry we are and how spectacularly we contort ourselves before our own eyes, and the eyes of others… And all for what? To hide what? To make people believe what?

Roberto Bolaño, 2666 - Part IV: The Part About the Crimes

There is a reason it is called the greatest book of the last 50 years.

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer
Rainer Maria Rilke

“And what have I invested in interpreting disfocus for chaos? This threat: the only lesson is to wait. I crouch in the smoggy terminus. The streets lose edges, the rims of thought flake. What have I set myself to fix in this dirty notebook that is not mine? Does the revelation that, though it cannot be done with words, it might be accomplished in some lingual gap, give me the right, in injury, walking with a woman and her dog in pain? Rather the long doubts: that this labor tears up the mind’s moorings; that, though life may be important in the scheme, awareness is an imperfect tool with which to face it. To reflect is to fight away the sheets of silver, the carbonated distractions, the feeling that, somehow, a thumb is pressed on the right eye. This exhaustion melts what binds, releases what flows.

 Samuel Delany, Dhalgren

You begin to suspect, as you gaze through this you-shaped hole of insight and fire, that though it is the most important thing you own — never deny that for an instant — it has not shielded you from anything terribly important. The only consolation is that though one could have thrown it away at any time, morning or night, one didn’t. One chose to endure. Without any assurance of immortality, or even competence, one only knows one has not been cheated out of the consolation of carpenters, accountants, doctors, ditch-diggers, the ordinary people who must do useful things to be happy. Meander along, then, half blind and a little mad, wondering when you actually learned — was it before you began? — the terrifying fact that had you thrown it away, your wound would have been no more likely to heal: indeed, in an affluent society such as this, you might even have gone on making songs, poems, pictures, and getting paid. The only difference would have been — and you learned it listening to all those brutally unhappy people who did throw away theirs — and they do, after all, comprise the vast and terrifying majority — that without it, there plainly and starkly would have been nothing there; no, nothing at all

- Samuel Delany, Dhalgren