ДУРНАЯ НАКЛОННОСТЬ

She felt such misery for she was living in a world dominated by name brands and superficiality. A world where celebrities where raved about in magazines and fame conquered. She sat with his book in her delicate hands. She read his book over and over again until she had memorized every line, every word; she was addicted to the profound truth to his words. She felt like she had been brought back to life, every nerve in her body felt alive. She asked herself countless times if this was love, for her heart was filled with deep happiness. She found herself thinking about him constantly. She wondered what kind of person he was, who did he love? Did he love the sound of rain falling gently on a tin roof while he slept? Did he admire the overwhelming beauty of a field of flowers? She wanted to know who he was. She wanted to embrace him and ponder matters of life itself with him and stare into his lips as he spoke. She dreams of running into his arms and gazing into his cavernous eyes. She knows this is without a question impossible but still she dreams. She dreams of being born in a different era, a different life.

My love infatuation with John Keats..

25 College Street

My dearest Girl,

This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my Mind for ever so short a time. Upon my Soul I can think of nothing else - The time is passed when I had power to advise and warn you again[s]t the unpromising morning of my Life - My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you - I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again - my Life seems to stop there - I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving - I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you. My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? I have no limit now to my love - You note came in just here - I cannot be happier away from you - ‘T is richer than an Argosy of Pearles. Do not threat me even in jest. I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion - I have shudder’d at it - I shudder no more - I could be martyr’d for my Religion - Love is my religion - I could die for that - I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet - You have ravish’d me away by a Power I cannot resist: and yet I could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavoured often “to reason against the reasons of my Love.” I can do that no more - the pain would be too great - My Love is selfish - I cannot breathe without you.

Yours for ever

John Keats

Привет тебе. Меня зовут Берг мне 19 лет я из Выборга, кстати. Ну у меня в общем то много жизненых убеждений и прицедентов на основе этих убеждений. Главное мое убеждение во всем тебя убедить. Побочно оно формулируется еще так: Есть убеждения, которые лишают смысла все убеждения. И вот эти-то убеждения и кажутся самыми разумными. Все это хорошо, только непонятно, какое отношение имеет к этому дата: 30 июня 2011 г. И время: три часа пополудни.

Мысль, которая кажется выражением самого интенсивного переживания, моего самого задушевного опыта, теряет свою убедительность, как только переносишь ее на бумагу. Любая философская книга – это гербарий. Мысли сохраняются в ней в виде высушенных цветов, потерявших краски и аромат. Когда мысль отрывают от поддерживающего ее стебля, она умирает. Убедительным может быть только человек, но не мысль. Или так: убедительной может быть только человеческая жизнь, но не мысль. Вот почему я отказываюсь от попыток написать что-нибудь завершенное. Мне кажется, я вообще не хочу писать. С меня достаточно и того, что мои слова не испаряются сразу, как только я их произнесу.

Я тебя убедил выслушать? Я тебе еще потом напишу.

Берг,

Of every priest, guru, nun and rishi, of every therapist, lama, swami, and saint. Of every drug addict and several strangers on the street, I’ve asked for teachings on forgetfulness, transmissions, rituals for purification, drugs and whiskey, any form of magic for erasing your voice from my mind, your image from my days and nights, your scent of salt and lemons and warm summer rain like a tiny flame traveling beneath my skin and down the sidewalks where we once walked, where I still hear your words and the songs of the cicadas, and the shadows falling beneath the acacia trees at dusk and the strands of light coming free from the sun and stars and your hair slipping loose from its silver clasp, and your footsteps walking away with your legs, and your skirt swaying like a curtain in the wind, and my soul scissoring the air like the wings of a bird overhead, warning me—resist, resist, as it shapes the spaces around me into a shimmering of what was, a mirage, a fantasy so intense, I can taste it in my mind, like a recipe for summer, a familiar anguish that arrives and leaves without me, until at last I am so alone, I know nothing. I can’t even say who I am.

я хочу научиться оставлять людям самих себя, не лезть в гугл и словари, для того, чтобы узнать о том или ином термене/актере/музыканте/писателе, который был упомянут моими безызвестными, и которого я не знаю, я хочу оставить этих людей/термены/вещи им самим (моим безызвестным), навсегда, у каждого человека должно быть что-то такое, что знает только он; из этого и складывается вселенское знание, разум, ведь, в сущность одному человеку знать все за всех невозможно

будте гуманны друг к другу и люди будут нужны

If you feel that you must write a diary, be aware that you are writing not to document your misery, but to make your future self happy. Your diary should be a nepenthe.

A nepenthe: something that helps you forget
sorrow and suffering, like a bottle of poppers.
Submarine.

не напрягайся не засоряйся

Each night you come home with five continents on your hands: garlic, olive oil, saffron, anise, coriander, tea, your fingernails blackened with a marjoram and thyme. Sometimes the zucchini’s flesh seems like a fish-steak, cut into neat filets, or the salt-rubbed eggplant yields not bitter water, but dark mystery. You cut everything into bits. No core, no kernel, no seed is scared: you cut onions for hours and do not cry, cut them to thin transparencies, the red ones spreading before you like fallen flowers; you cut scallions from white to green, you cut radishes, apples, broccoli, you cut oranges, watercress, romaine, you cut your fingers, you cut and cut beyond the heart of things, where nothing remains, and you cut that too, scoring coup on the butcherblock, leaving your mark, when you go your feet are as pounded as brioche dough. Jane Hirshfield

IS RIHANNA BLONDE NOW?!
▼

dirty bitch is always copying my hair.
pff. at least mines iz real.

how many codeine can one consume before succumbing to fatality?

one question: do you need someone, or do you need me?

You said the world turns to parts.
You said the parts are cunning spheres.
You said you always love the face of sin.
You said it’s here, the lips and eyes and skin.

Птицы кричат над моим садом. Они возвращаются издалека. Это значит, что наступила весна. Я слышу, как благоухают цветы. Я вижу, как на деревьях распускаются почки. Мне хочется и смеяться, и плакать. Неужели наступила весна? Разве чудо может случиться вновь? «Да!» – отвечают мне птицы. «Да!» – отвечают мне цветы и листья. «Да!» – отвечают мне ручьи и стрекозы. «Да!» – отвечают мне счастливые сны.

больные туберкулезом теряют в весе и потому выглядят худыми, лицо бледное, черты лица заостряются и потому лицо кажется более красивым, на фоне бледной кожи лица на щеках заметен румянец. Больные с хроническим туберкулезом сильно истощены.