I don’t understand the heights of the things that I sometimes think, I understand.
Answers, I need are always somewhere in the details and this quest of feeling what I am yearning to feel is unquenchable, trying to comprehend but constantly failing at understanding to challenge my own framework of ( mechanical ) understanding to better understand how I can understand with an open mind.
Often times, I don’t know how to know what I should know, I feel lost in knowing, sinking and drifting while trying to see through the brokenness, it is painful to observe the pain, there is though some beauty in understanding the layers of these feelings /
like in wanting to come to the end of yourself, there’s an actual goodness, I feel in escaping the feelings of enticing desires and fleeting pleasures that this world has to offer…
Only stabbing my own conscience keeps me, gives me the stillness I need and the clarity I must always seek to decipher the code of worldliness.
( read my new piece — absorption in ease on wavular )
Franz Kafka — I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we are reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.
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