I had done so much injury with this body. How could I want to preserve any of it for eternity, and suddenly I remembered a phrase of Richard’s - about human beings inventing the doctrines to satisfy their desires, and I thought how wrong he is. If I were to invent a doctrine it would be that the body was never born again, that it rotted with last year’s vermin. It’s strange how the human mind swings back and forth, from one extreme to another. Does truth lie at some point of the pendulum’s swing, at a point where it never rests, not in the dull perpendicular mean where it dangles in the end like a windless flag, but at an angle, nearer one extreme than another? If only a miracle could stop the pendulum at an angle of sixty degrees, one would believe the truth was there. Well, the pendulum swung today and I thought, instead of my own body, of Maurice’s. I thought of certain lines life had put on his face as personal as a line of his writing: I thought of a new scar on his shoulder that wouldn’t have been there if once he hadn’t tried to protect another man’s body from a falling wall. He didn’t tell me why he was in hospital those three days: Henry told me. That scar was part of his character as much as his jealousy. And so I thought, do I want that body to be vapour (mine yes, but his?), and I knew I wanted that scar to exist through all eternity. But could my vapour love that scar? Then I began to want my body that I hated, but only because it could love that scar. We can love with our minds, but can we love only with our minds? Love extends itself all the time, so that we can even love with our senseless nails: we love even with our clothes, so that a sleeve can feel a sleeve.

i mean...

throughout it all, every single stupid fucked up thing i've ever done, i never wanted to hurt anybody except myself

the innocent-bystander effect, i guess

"as long as theres someone like you and theres someone like me, then theres people like us"

i'm moving to serbia in two and a half days. i keep getting migraines and there is a patch of dry skin on my thigh that keeps returning. i'm convinced that there is something rotting inside of me. when things are going well in my life i think of death. i drive slowly and am scared to merge. i avoid the motorway. i flinch whenever a large vehicle overtakes me. 27 years old and still my all-encompassing pervasive reaction to happiness is the expectation that soon i will be devoured by the wheels of a ten ton truck on the a45.

when i was younger i said the only thing i hate more than people who leave is people who come back

now i just wish everyone would keep returning

i read something along the lines of "i'm not where i want to be but thank god i'm not where i used to be"

“The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd – The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.”