People These Days Spend Most Of Their Time Showing Who They Are Not And The Rest Of Their Time Hiding

“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others.”

— Cicero, Pro Plancio

𖦹*ੈ‧ 𝚂𝚎𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𓇼 ₊˚𓆝

The last milestone

A heart in dissolution

The defeat is taking form

Reaching the turning point

A desperate call

It's approaching

Falling

It's near

The last milestone

Crawling

It's here

Isolated

Dancing the last dance

It's approaching

Falling

It's near

The last milestone

Crawling

It's here

It's approaching

Far beyond

The last milestone

Reaching the last floor

𝓞𝓱 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓸𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼

Ulf Andersen Charles Bukowski 1978

there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe? there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep, do you?

-- Charles Bukowski, "Bluebird" 1992

the moon in paintings. x

Always Deflect, Never Reflect

Imagine being so deep in denial about your own blunders

That every misstep you take feels like an attack against you,

Rather than a consequence of your own actions.

Every time you do wrong, it’s never your fault;

It’s the fault of those who noticed, those who reacted,

Those who dared to hold you accountable, albeit in a subtle way.

It's the fault of the press for criticizing,

Not the official for his serial corruption

You turn every consequence into a conspiracy,

Every criticism into cruelty,

Never once admitting that the damage began with you.

But reactions are human instinct—

And accountability could be, too, if only you’d accept it.

Every action comes with a reaction—whether you like it or not.

- Yvonne

‏عَفوت فإسمح ، نصبوا لِنكونَ ونشِيخَ لنموتْ , رَحِيمٌ أنت بِعبادك. حقاً ؟ فالتدخين يقتُل ، والحياةُ أيضاً تقتُل , ولكن كل منهم بطريقةٍ وعلى حِدى , تُقلع بِنَا سُفنٍ مِنْ لحظاتِ إنتهاء الإحتضار فى الحيوات الأُخرى إلى أرحُمِ أُمهاتِنَا لحياةٍ جديده , تطفوا بنا من حيثُ لا نُدرك من أينَ نبدأ , نذوبُ مِثل حَبّات بحور الملح وذراتِه فى كُحّل العبق , ظمآنين عَفوكَ ورِضَاك , ولا نرضيك. نبنى ونشّيدُ قِلاعاً فى كُتبٍ من نُورِ جُحْم لهيب الآخره , ويأتى شخصٌ يُهدِمُها بمجرد نظرةٍ قسمت الحجر وألقت بنا فى مُحتضرِ عُقولِ الجحيم بِذاته. وكأننا نُذبَح فى بحور مُعضلات المُعرقلات. هواجسٌ وأفكار دماغيه فزيائيه , يموتُ الجسد ولا تنتهى الروح , فبعد موتِنا نظلُ أحياء كما نحن مخدوعين ننظُر فى أعينِنَا البعض نظرةُ الهلعِ , مُرتعدين الخُشوعَ والتضرعِ فى حلاك سوادِ الحداد مُنتشرين الزُهر. إنتقال إلى دار أوسع مُضججِين الوعى غير قادرين الوصول بِنشوة الفكر والتفكر فى الروح ، آسِفين البؤس ولسنا مُنتعشين فى روح الملكوت , نمتنعُ عن اللهو فى الروحانيات الإلهيه التى تدعوا الى البساطه فى جهد الواقعِ المبذول فى مظاهر الحياة. تركونى بروح , مخاوفٌ وعلم بالمصير , و رؤية الماضى المستقبلى , باحِثين عن الخيرِ فى القُلوبِ الُمتقلبة ثم إقتلاع جذورة , بالإستعاضة عنها بالشر. غرائزُ السبعْ سماوات والسبعْ أراضين الحيوانيه , نعلم أنها لسيت فينا ولكن .. نحاول إضجاج محتضرات ألغاز الحياة في أنفسنا. ونظل نُقتَل .. كَما ولدتنا أمُهاتُنا عرايا من قبل. ونظل آسِفين.

“When Kafka allows a friend to understand that he writes because otherwise he would go mad, he knows that writing is madness already, his madness, a kind of vigilance, unrelated to any wakefulness save sleep’s: insomnia. Madness against madness, then. But he believes that he masters the one by abandoning himself to it; the other frightens him, and is his fear; it tears through him, wounds and exalts him. It is as if he had to undergo all the force of an uninterruptible continuity, a tension at the edge of the insupportable which he speaks of with fear and not without a feeling of glory. For glory is the disaster.”

— Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster

“I had observed that the men who were most in life, who were molding life, who were life itself, ate little, slept little, owned little or nothing. They had no illusions about duty, or the perpetuation of their kith and kin, or the preservation of the State. They were interested in truth and in truth alone. They recognized only one kind of activity — creation. Nobody could command their services because they had of their own pledged themselves to give all. They gave gratuitously, because that is the only way to give.”

— Henry Miller, The Rosy Crucifixion