At the deepest level people are madder than they want to believe. You will find that they fear being eaten, and are alarmed by their desire to devour others.
All the same, my depression and self-hatred, my desire to mutilate myself with broken bottles, my numbness and crying fits, my inability to get out of bed for days and days, the feeling of the world moving in to crush me, went on and on. But I knew I wouldn't go mad, even if that release, that letting-go, was a freedom I desired. I was waiting for myself to heal.
I don't want to be loved. I want to be desired. Love is safety, but desire is foul.
My guess is that she is uncomfortable in such an intransigent world but is unable to live accordingly to her own desire.
Secrets are my currency: I deal in them for a living. The secrets of desire, of what people really want, and of what they fear the most. The secrets of why love is difficult, sex complicated, living painful and death so close and yet placed far away. Why are pleasure and punishment closely related? How do our bodies speak? Why do we make ourselves ill? Why do you want to fail? Why is pleasure hard to bear?
I've never had any desire to be good. I don't like goodness particularly.
You can't spend your life beating yourself up for something that happened yesterday. You die if you don't follow your desire.
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