“I know what you are learning to endure. There is nothing to be done. Just make sure nothing is wasted. Take notes. Remember it all every insult, every tear. Tattoo it inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I’ve told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to.”—White Oleander by Janet Fitch
The way I see it, everything is a blank state, an empty wall of white, a face you can’t read and one big twisted poker game that you cannot win. Your words have never left me, they’re the words I speak in my prayers everyday. The tearing down of masks and strongholds is never easy.
We look from afar and we assume that everything we speak of and see is not true, our minds have been conditioned a long time ago to believe that what we see might not always be true. They look for masks and hidden intentions, motivated to search and dig out what is false
Fabricated lies when woven together always make a beautiful story. The way you start to put your faith in magical words, in that invisible something, intangible and dangerous. Taking the first step to bringing yourself down or propelling yourself forward.
I am physically here but gone with you emotionally
I found a letter that said: “I’m sorry that you were asleep when I wrote these words down, you’d think I’d ought to be used to that by now, save for a few of those late night episodes, missed opportunities, and “I don’t care’s”, there’s not a lot that I feel obliged to share or talk about.
You’re the echoes of my everything, you’re the emptiness the whole world sings at night. You’re the laziness of afternoon, you’re the reason why I burst and why I bloom, how will I break the news to you?
Cancel our dinner with Max and Coraline, feed Jacky’s gerbil and try to stay clean. We’ll talk it over after I’ve had some time alone to sort it out.
You’re the leaky sink of sentiment, you’re the failed attempts I never could forget. You’re the metaphors I can’t create to comprehend this curse that I call love.
There was something inscrutable about this man Komatsu. You couldn’t easily tell from his expression or tone of voice what he was thinking or feeling. He appeared to derive a good deal of pleasure from keeping others guessing. Mentally, he was very quick, that was for certain. He was the type of man who had his own sense of logic and reached his own conclusions without regard to the opinions of others. He did not engage in pointless intellectual display, but it was clear that he had read an enormous amount and that his knowledge was both wide-ranging and deep. Nor was it simply a matter of factual knowledge: he had an intuitive eye both for people and for books. His biases played a large role here, but for Komatsu bias was an important element of truth.
He never said a great deal, and he hated long-winded explanations, but when necessary he could present his views logically and precisely. He could also be quite caustic if he felt like it, aiming a quick and merciless jab at his opponent’s weakest point. He had very strong opinions about both people and literature; the works and individuals he could not tolerate far outnumbered those he could. Not surprisingly, the number of people who disliked him was far greater than those who thought well of him - which was exactly what he hoped for. Tengo thought that Komatsu enjoyed the isolation - and even relished being openly hated. Komatsu believed that mental acuity was never born from comfortable circumstances.
*Note that this is an excerpt from 1Q84, I love this paragraph