I have spent my life resisting the desire to end it.
In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.
I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful.
You can choose to be free , but it's last decision you'll ever make
I’m doing badly, I’m doing well; whichever you prefer.
If you become involved with me, you will be throwing yourself into the abyss.
I can love only what I can place so high above me that I cannot reach it.
There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.
I want in fact more of you. In my mind I am dressing you with light; I am wrapping you up in blankets of complete acceptance and then I give myself to you. I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.
You are so vulnerably haunting. Your eeriness is terrifyingly irresistible.
Just because your doctor has a name for your condition, doesn't mean he knows what it is.
He is terribly afraid of dying because he hasn’t yet lived.
I do not see the world at all; I invent it.
If the literature we are reading does not wake us, why then do we read it? A literary work must be an ice-axe to break the sea frozen inside us.
All language is but a poor translation.
Beyond a certain point there is no return. This point has to be reached.
A first sign of the beginning of understanding is the wish to die.
You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.
The meaning of life is that it stops.
I have no memory for things I have learned, nor things I have read, nor things experienced or heard, neither for people nor events; I feel that I have experienced nothing, learned nothing, that I actually know less than the average schoolboy, and that what I do know is superficial, and that every second question is beyond me. I am incapable of thinking deliberately; my thoughts run into a wall. I can grasp the essence of things in isolation, but I am quite incapable of coherent, unbroken thinking. I can't even tell a story properly; in fact, I can scarcely talk.
I lack nothing. I only needed myself.
I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.
I never wish to be easily defined.
Nothing is as deceptive as a photograph.
Better to have, and not need, than to need, and not have.
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