I just think life is meaningless altogether, most of the time. Yes, there is beauty in the moment, but beyond that? People come and go and you can never count on anyone, and life is just life; a mystery, and ultimately meaningless. The meaning is in the creation, and the creation is a human construct; and people just make up stuff in order to get through life.
René Vernor, Anything Is Possible
zeus is bullshit: a poem for anyone feeling alone
the theory that people
are always searching for
their other half is
don’t let anyone, not
even a god, tell you
you are anything less
Maybe I’m being unfair, but I can’t let my resentment towards you go.
I will fix you somehow, someway, whatever it is I will find it and fix you.
There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.
I exist, that is all, and I find it nauseating.
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
You’d be fucking ecstatic if I don’t come back wouldn’t you? Just fucking leave, disappear, you wouldn’t give a shit.