like an outcast

Where are those old friends with whom in years gone by I felt so closely united? Now it seems as if we belonged to different worlds, and no longer spoke the same language! Like a stranger and an outcast, I move among them — not one of their words or looks reaches me any longer. I am dumb for no one understands my speech — ah, but they never did understand me! It is terrible to be condemned to silence when one has so much to say.

Was I made for solitude or for a life in which there was no one to whom I could speak? The inability to communicate one's thoughts is in very truth the most terrible of all kinds of loneliness. Difference is a mask which is more ironbound than any iron mask.

Friedrich Nietzsche, numa carta à irmã (1886)

ᔥ toward the creative nothing

by chance

há qualquer coisa de fantástico numa caminhada às 9h da noite quando vais a ouvir a banda sonora do Drive no mp3. já o sol se pôs e começa-te a tocar a Tick of the Clock no momento em que vais a passar junto a um armazém guardado por dois cães que começam a ladrar freneticamente na tua presença. som esse que se sobrepõe à música, ecoando no pinhal do lado oposto. com todo aquele som surround por momentos senti que personificara o driver numa cena de perseguição.
foi bom enquanto durou.

Most people don't know what they want or feel.

And for everyone, myself included, It's very difficult to say what you mean when what you mean is painful. The most difficult thing in the world is to reveal yourself, to express what you have to... As an artist, I feel that we must try many things - but above all, we must dare to fail. You must have the courage to be bad - to be willing to risk everything to really express it all.

John Cassavetes

have you suffered the torment of insomnia, when you count the minutes for nights on end, when you feel alone in this world, when your drama seems to be the most important in history and history ceases to have meaning, ceases to exist?

are you familiar with the frightening sensation of melting, the feeling of dissolving into a flowing river, in which the self is annulled by organic liquidization? everything solid and substantial in you melts away in a wearisome fluidity, and the only thing left is your head. i'm speaking of a precise painful sensation, not a vague and undetermined one. as in a hallucinatory dream, you feel that only your head is left, without foundation and support, without a body. this feeling has nothing to do with that vague and voluptuous weariness by the seaside or in melancholy dreamy musings; it is a weariness which consumes and destroys. no effort, no hope, no illusion can satisfy you any longer. shocked witless by your own catastrophe, unable to think or to act, caught in cold and heavy darkness, solitary as in moments of profound regret, you have reached the negative limit of life, its absolute temperature, where the last illusions about life freeze.

from On the Heights of Despair by E. M. Cioran

amor aos inconvenientes de ser socially awkward*

Sair, sair sem dizer nada, ir embora, bazar, dar o fora.
Fazê-lo sem um aceno que fosse distante, mudo, envergonhado, é no mínimo má educação.


*e às mensagens do S. que até quando era para me por defeitos o fazia com estilo.

stand still

Time could truly be made to stand still. Texture could be retained despite violent movement.

Alfred Hitchcock & Teresa Wright by Gjon Mili