Timor mortis conturbat me. The fear of death disturbs me.
I will be dying and so will you, and so will everyone here. That's what I want to explore. We're all hurtling towards death, yet here we are for the moment, alive. Each of us knowing we're going to die, each of us secretly believing we won't.
The end is built into the beginning.
There has to be pain. That's the rule.
I can feel this heart inside me and I conclude it exists. I can touch this world and I also conclude that it exists. All my knowledge ends at this point. The rest is hypothesis.
I am more uncertain than I ever was; I feel only the power of life. And I am senselessly empty.
The lives of most people are small tight pallid and sad, more to be mourned than their deaths. We starve at the banquet: We cannot see that there is a banquet because seeing the banquet requires that we see also ourselves sitting there starving-seeing ourselves clearly, even for a moment, is shattering. We are not dead but asleep, dreaming of ourselves.
Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
We can know ourselves only because we can remember.
If I said any more it would just be a lie; you can't use words to corral something this wild.
Silence is also conversation.
We must just stay awake and see evil done for a little while it's not always.
Well time has a way of throwing it all in your face. The past, she is haunted, the future is laced.
I asked what you love, you said, 'Anything with words.'
It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
We are terrible for each other, and, yes, we are a disaster. But tell me your heart doesn't race for a hurricane or a burning building. I'd rather die terrified than live forever.
A man may have lived all of his life in the gray, and the land and trees of him dark and somber. The events, the important ones, may have trooped by faceless and pale. And then-the glory-so that a cricket song sweetens his ears, the smell of the earth rises chanting to his nose, and dappling light under a tree blesses his eyes. Then a man pours outward, a torrent of him, and yet he is not diminished.
Sometimes the past seems too big for the present to hold.
Death is not the end. Death is an ocean on all sides of our lives. Deep and dark and cold, and anything but empty.
If we couldn't carry our dead inside us, we would be empty.
We know the surrealist solution: concrete irrationality, objective risk. Poetry is the conquest, the only possible conquest, of the 'supreme position', 'a certain position of the mind from where life and death, the real and the imaginary, the past and the future... cease to be perceived in a contradictory sense.'
Somewhere between the time you arrive and the time you go may lie a reason you were alive, but you'll never know.
Things begin, things decay, and you've got to find a way to be okay.
Look round and round upon this bare bleak plain, and see even here, upon a winter's day, how beautiful the shadows are! Alas! It is the nature of their kind to be so. The loveliest things in life... are but shadows; and they come and go, and change and fade away, as rapidly as these.
Sometimes fear grips me that these fragile moments of life will fade away. It seems that I write against erasure.
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