He wrote to Connie with the same plaintive melancholy note as ever, sometimes witty, and touched with a queer, sexless affection. A kind of hopeless affection he seemed to feel for her, and the essential remoteness remained the same. He was hopeless at the very core of him, and he wanted to be hopeless. He rather hated hope. "Une immense espérance a traversé la terre", he read somewhere, and his comment was:"--and it's darned-well drowned everything worth having."
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.
It's not like boyscout badges
nor are they medals of honor
my skin's my mother earth -
I'm just trying to exert some control upon her.
I don't think I'll make it to the end
of when this tug of war is over.
The give and take of slice and fake
a smile - my cheeks are sore and I'm not sober.
(all of these increasing scars
have become my prison bars)
It's tragic; you tried to cut yourself in half, But this isn't magic; in fact it's something much more dark, or more dramatic Self harm, that's what they call it. 'Cause it just affects you. It's your life, your body, so you can choose what you do, And if one day you can't rein it in, And of your last breath you are the only witness, Then so be it, cause it's your last breath, And it's nobody else's business. But, how about your little sister? I mean, you think your life's been bad, And by no means am I belittling that, 'Cause I know the troubles you've had But a teen finding out her big sister chose death over life, Finding out instead of turning to her with your problems, You turned to a knife That's a whole lot of pain to deal with, And a whole lot of damage And the only role model she has is little more than words engraved in granite. But as you said before, this just affects you. It's your life, your body, so you can choose what you do. And if one day you can't rein it in, And of your last breath you are the only witness, Read more »
So much of what we live goes on inside—
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.
The darkness is death - we can speak, but we are not heard. We can scream but they turn their backs. We can run, but we cannot catch them. It is the dream where arms and legs won't work they way they should, and the air is too thick to breathe. Loved ones walk a mile ahead, forgetting to stop as we fall behind. This is the reality of the darkness. We are buried alive inside ourselves.
Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.
Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore:
fecemi la divina podestate,
la somma sapienza e 'l primo amore.
Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create
se non etterne, e io etterno duro.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate
(THROUGH me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.
Justice the founder of my fabric mov'd:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon ye who enter here.)
