a mere oscillation between flight and longing (hermann broch)
life doesn't require ideals. it requires standards of action
i wrung the fatigue from every cell of my body, drop by drop.
a non-month. unfocused and unfelt, a lukewarm protoplasm of a month.
to her, i was already lost. even if she still loved me, it didn't matter. we'd gotten too used to each other's role. she understood it instinctively; i knew it from experience. there was no hope.
not that that bothers me. i mean, i take what i get.
accurate figures give things a sense of reality.
we were totally alone. as if we'd been dropped off at the edge of the world.
for a brief instant, i felt a sense of vertigo. there in the darkness, tie turned on its head. moments overlapped. memories crumbled. then it was over. i opened my eyes and everything fell back into place.
well, any friend of gatsby is a friend of mine.
i can never say what i want to say. it's been like this for a while now. i try to say something, but all i get are the wrong words - the wrong words or the exact opposite words from what i mean. i try to correct myself, and that only makes it worse. i lose track of what i was trying to say to begin with. it's like i'm split in two and playing tag with myself. one half is chasing the other half around this big, fat post. the other me has the right words, but this me can't catch her.
death exists - in a paperweight, in four red and white balls on a billiard table - and we go on living and breathing it into our lungs like fine dust.
what did i want? and what did others want from me? but i could never find the answers. sometimes i would reach out and try to grasp the grains of light, but my fingers touched nothing.
washed clean of summer's dust by days of gentle rain, the mountains wore a deep, brilliant green. the October breeze set white fronds of head-tall grasses swaying. one long streak of cloud hung pasted across a dome of frozen blue. it almost hurt to look at the far-off sky.
which is why i am writing this book. to think. to understand. it just happens to be the way i'm made. i have to write things down to feel i fully comprehend them.
it was a marvelous, warm gesture that stopped my heart for a moment.
even so, my memory has grown increasingly distant, and i have already forgotten any number of things. writing from memory like this, i often feel a pang of dread. what if i've forgotten the most important thing?
unfortunately, the clock is ticking. the hours are going by. the past increases, the future recedes. possibilities decreasing. regrets increasing.
an act akin to dreaming.
after a certain length of time has passed, things harden up. like cement hardening in a bucket. and we can't go back anymore. what you want to say is that the cement that makes you up has hardened, so the you you are now can't be anyone else.
each scene felt unreal and strangely distanced, as if i were viewing it through two or three layers of glass.
and we live quietly, so as to not hurt one another.
--haruki murakami
i wrung the fatigue from every cell of my body, drop by drop.
a non-month. unfocused and unfelt, a lukewarm protoplasm of a month.
to her, i was already lost. even if she still loved me, it didn't matter. we'd gotten too used to each other's role. she understood it instinctively; i knew it from experience. there was no hope.
not that that bothers me. i mean, i take what i get.
accurate figures give things a sense of reality.
we were totally alone. as if we'd been dropped off at the edge of the world.
for a brief instant, i felt a sense of vertigo. there in the darkness, tie turned on its head. moments overlapped. memories crumbled. then it was over. i opened my eyes and everything fell back into place.
well, any friend of gatsby is a friend of mine.
i can never say what i want to say. it's been like this for a while now. i try to say something, but all i get are the wrong words - the wrong words or the exact opposite words from what i mean. i try to correct myself, and that only makes it worse. i lose track of what i was trying to say to begin with. it's like i'm split in two and playing tag with myself. one half is chasing the other half around this big, fat post. the other me has the right words, but this me can't catch her.
death exists - in a paperweight, in four red and white balls on a billiard table - and we go on living and breathing it into our lungs like fine dust.
what did i want? and what did others want from me? but i could never find the answers. sometimes i would reach out and try to grasp the grains of light, but my fingers touched nothing.
washed clean of summer's dust by days of gentle rain, the mountains wore a deep, brilliant green. the October breeze set white fronds of head-tall grasses swaying. one long streak of cloud hung pasted across a dome of frozen blue. it almost hurt to look at the far-off sky.
which is why i am writing this book. to think. to understand. it just happens to be the way i'm made. i have to write things down to feel i fully comprehend them.
it was a marvelous, warm gesture that stopped my heart for a moment.
even so, my memory has grown increasingly distant, and i have already forgotten any number of things. writing from memory like this, i often feel a pang of dread. what if i've forgotten the most important thing?
unfortunately, the clock is ticking. the hours are going by. the past increases, the future recedes. possibilities decreasing. regrets increasing.
an act akin to dreaming.
after a certain length of time has passed, things harden up. like cement hardening in a bucket. and we can't go back anymore. what you want to say is that the cement that makes you up has hardened, so the you you are now can't be anyone else.
each scene felt unreal and strangely distanced, as if i were viewing it through two or three layers of glass.
and we live quietly, so as to not hurt one another.
--haruki murakami