His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when if was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.
Hemingway on Fitzgerald (via cephalicimperfections)
in case anyone should wonder what happened to my running career….here it is. clearer and more concise than i could ever write it.
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
the final wish
—cannot be bitter,
the weight is too heavy
for no return
in all the excellence
of its excess.
the paring-down is mine.
I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
We are dying from overthinking. We are slowly killing ourselves by thinking about everything. Think. Think. Think. You can never trust the human mind anyway. It’s a death trap.
You remember too much, my mother said to me recently.
Why hold onto all that?” And I said, “where can I put it down?
of course it’s terribly unfair, my reflexive assignation of stigma, the siegewall flung into blindered impregnability (all bravado. fragility osmoses.). bellicose babble needling you hence (no room in this inn for thee). snarling at your supination, at the mirrors of the burden barring banishment; panic swells, turns tempest in the face of this refraction, of Self made manifold (no verbose filter, no veneer to play mask, to make up); snarling, seared by light, the sway of being’s pendulum, snarling because why aren’t you running?
you aren’t, because you can’t. which you’ve been whispering in counterpoint to my cacophany this entire time. the tether binds in each direction.
seventy-seven degrees. pedantic air. november the fifth. whoever assembled this day may borrow my scissors and my glue and start over again at his or her leisure. i, having in my possession dismal spacial and directional skills, find myself yet stymied by the absence of whatever is that rented the space from my expatriated internal compass. for the past five minutes, instead of sitting at the computer, i essentially folded over my desk and hovered at the boundary of awareness. it was quiet there. i make my clocks lie to me; six minutes’ worth of falsehood. does that mean i function within a sequence of time loops, between my “now” and yours?
this planet is fetid with falsehood. dangle a perfume-soaked specimen in my face and watch me gag twice—from the stench of lie and of the feeble meta-lie that says “i cannot give you truth even in untruth; see how it pains me to wrong you?” even as it slinks away, breath bated, hoping to slip out of periphery and into the fog of query (impenetrable). motive cannot absolve, here. i will see your lie, and i refuse to pay the sentiment forward by feigning ignorance (to both of us).
i clutch at truth even as i stagger beneath its weight. do not make me also bear the lash of your dishonesty. i face my own truths, and their pain, but the hurt catalyzed by an inability (or refusal) to live with and act with honesty is insufferable.