Letters to Wassily



I say unto you: there is no beginning and we do not tremble, we are not sentimental.

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  • This feeling of latent catastrophe.  It’s all there, just below the surface.  It’s all there, and it can’t be contained forever.

    And sometimes it feels more like everything is in the process of crashing, and I’m trapped inside of it, watching it all in slow motion, waiting for the impact. Looking forward to the impact, since that will mean it’s all finally over.  The moment before the breath leaves the body is the moment you can finally breathe again.

    I think this is loneliness.  Surrounded by people, never alone, now (more than ever before, ever in my life) continuously interacting and yet, lonely lonely lonely.  Life is a lie.  I feel cheated.  Be social, they say, he says, and yet.  They like you, they say, he says, and yet.

    They’ll never like you, ‘cause you’re not empty, though you purge and purge and purge.

    They’ll never like you, ‘cause you’re not petty, though you hurt and hurt and hurt.


  • #oh those livejournal days      #emo      






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