I might not be beautiful or contrite, but I am content in all my savagery.
ASK ME ANYTHING
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What matters is precisely this; the unspoken at the edge of the spoken.
from a diary entry dated 21 July 1912.
Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.
Some losses will
empty you of all desires;
That’s how you know
that what’s to come
is far greater
than what is no longer.
by © 2013 Maza-Dohta
It seems I am always running ahead of my needing,
looking out from a higher window of the body
to see the edges of things, the weight
of a pound of grapes in my hand, that tactile rush
of consolation. But I am here now.
I am resting my head against the part of myself
I am willing to put down.
from “Apologia Pro Vita Sua,” in
Boxcar Poetry Review
(Issue 32) (via
There is such loneliness in that gold.
The moon of the nights is not the moon
Who the first Adam saw. The long centuries
Of human vigil have filled her
With ancient lament. Look at her. She is your mirror.
by Jorge Luis Borges,
The same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever I go: I pretend interest in what matters nothing to me, I bestir myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere. What attracts me is elsewhere, and I don’t know what that elsewhere is.
by E. M. Cioran. (via