“As it Fell” by Alex Kozobolis
but the rain was indifferent
I stare out the window on nights like these… as the streetlights reflect across the wet pavement through the rain dripping on my window, I long for something, anything, anyone… but as with any other moment in my life, I am greeted only with the familiar embrace of lonely nothing.
Q:I adore your art.
Thank you. I’ll be working on more soon.
Anton Giulio Bragaglia, Violoncellist, 1913
Source: wonderfulambiguity
“Nostalgia for Something That Never Happened,” ink and watercolor.
Did this one a while back. I was unhappy with it and ended up starting over on a new one, but I dunno.
I often spend my nights waiting by my window, half expecting to see you on your way to visit me. It’s hopelessly absurd, I know… but it seems like that’s the only thing that gets me through these sleepless nights.
I have no fear of losing you, for you aren’t an object of my property, or anyone else’s. I love you as you are, without attachment, without fears, without conditions, without egoism, trying not to absorb you. I love you freely because I love your freedom, as well as mine.
(via fuckyeahexistentialism)
Source: starryyeyed
Scarecrow
I’ve been wandering for days, curiously following a dirt trail. I look around, and find myself standing in the middle of a desert, alone save for the miles of sand that stretches farther than I can see. I simply stand there, paralyzed by the hopelessness presented before me.
A weight pulverizes my insides into fine sand, which slips through my ribs with bones to follow. My spine is the only thing holding me up, like a scarecrow, guarding his expanse of nothing, from nobody.
I awaken feverishly hot and a profound dryness in my mouth.
“The Whole Truth” by Carlos Cipa.
The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.
goodnight, april
I don’t mind being alone. I really don’t. But what really bothers me is the people that proclaim that they would do their best to help me, that they only wish the best for me, that they will always be there for me til the end, that I’d never be alone…
Well, I’m still alone
[TW: SUICIDE] I find it insulting when people insist to a suicidal person that “they have so much to live for,” and that “they are stronger” than their suicidal impulse. As if the person in question isn’t entirely aware of those things, as if the chemical, neural imbalances or possibly external factors in them that are creating those feelings can easily be “overcome” if only they’re “strong” enough. Does that imply that they reason they’re suicidal in the first place is because they’re not strong? That they’re weak, in fact, for feeling the way that they do? It is not encouraging or helpful to say these things to a suicidal person, in my opinion. It smacks of shaming them; “oh, nothing’s really wrong, you’d be just fine if only you were strong enough. You should get on that.”
Suicidal people who are still suicidal and not dead have already proven their strength, as far as I’m concerned. And even those who commit suicide and “succeed” in the end can’t fairly be discounted as weak - everyone makes mistakes, sometimes deadly ones, and theirs wasn’t even their fault provided it was inspired by a mental illness. I’ve had plenty of people try to bring me back from the brink of a devastating depression by telling me that I’m so much stronger than it, and I can safely say that all I felt in those moments was shame, for not being strong enough to simply not feel that way. I’m not trying to speak for anyone else, but as far as I’m concerned, hearing that hurts more than it helps when you’re that low. So fuck you, I don’t need to hear that I’m stronger than my depression. I knew that already, it doesn’t change how I feel. You can’t sprinkle magic sparkle unicorn words over a chemical imbalance and make it go away. Don’t trivialize, invalidate, what I’m going through like that.
(via violentopinions)
Source: copulates
A clear mind has been lost to me for so long now. It’s like drowning, slowly, and watching the whole world race by, just above the surface…
If a woman tells me: I love you because you’re intelligent, because you’re decent, because you buy me gifts, because you don’t chase women, because you do the dishes, then I’m disappointed; such love seems a rather self-interested business. How much finer it is to hear: I’m crazy about you even though you’re neither intelligent nor decent, even though you’re a liar, an egotist, a bastard.
