Incorrigibly plural

velveteen:

whiskey makes the heart beat faster
but it sure doesn’t help the
mind and isn’t it funny how you can ache just
from the deadly drone
of existence?

from “Purple Glow” by Charles Bukowski

(via bookendsandbaubles)

girlinlondon:

“I’m something that I used to be. I’m never where I feel I am, and if I seek myself, I don’t know who’s seeking me. My boredom with everything has numbed me. I feel banished from my soul.”

—

The Book of Disquiet, Fernando Pessoa

Passive. Kills.

tarrinj:

Getting out of bed is the most impressive thing people do. You blink sleep away and think, somewhere deep down below consciousness, “Well, maybe today will be different.” And that’s just really remarkable to me.

(via atenderwolf)

I want to cry and scream and spit,
Remember why and understand,
For the days go by and all there are
Are wisps of collated memory of what
The very disturbance of a thought might be.

I cry and weep and wait for the opportunity to do so again and again. Does anything change at these times of capitulation? Why does it matter so much?

I wish it would.
I wish it would.

Though sweeping existential arguments are engaging, the reality of suicide is not fine and pure and philosophical, but messy and appalling and physical. I have heard it said that severe depression is “a living death anyway”. A living death is not pretty, but unlike a dead death, it offers scope for amelioration.

Solomon, Andrew, The Noonday Demon, Vintage Books, London, 2002, p. 251

Amelioration. Ha. Wonderful understatement and the first thing that’s genuinely made me smile for quite some time. Urgh.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck the fuckl fuck fuck fuck fuck ufck fuck fuck off.