I do not see the world at all; I invent it.
You can choose to be free , but it's last decision you'll ever make
I am free and that is why I am lost.
I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.
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.
Just because your doctor has a name for your condition, doesn't mean he knows what it is.
All language is but a poor translation.
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.
Follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.
Isolation is a way to know ourselves.
I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.
The meaning of life is that it stops.
You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.
I am in chains. Don't touch my chains.
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.
I never wish to be easily defined.
I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.
There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.
I have spent my life resisting the desire to end it.
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 wanted to escape the unrest, to shut out the voices around me and within me, so I write.
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.
What am I doing here in this endless winter?
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.
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