|—||Albert Camus, Notebooks (via insearchofwisdom)|
|—||Thomas Merton, “Disputed Questions” (via litverve)|
I have allocated an inordinate amount of time and effort into locating a star in the night sky with the most benevolent sheen—a star on which I could rely to guide me through the perennial darkness.
Most absconded with great rapidity, as though my intention was to replace their sustenance with iron.
A few had been deceased for an incomprehensible amount of time.
Yet, I persisted.
Frequently, I desperately aspired toward the slightest indication of brilliance that sought to obliterate the oppressive darkness of night.
Never did I locate the one forged with my being in mind.
Eventually, I stumbled upon you.
Life, death, fertility, rebirth.
The brightest star was you; my greatest hope was you.
Now, the bleakness of existence has prevailed, and no longer am I to find solace in you.
My brightest star.
|—||F. Scott Fitzgerald, Porcelain and Pink (via larmoyante)|
|—||From Hegel to Existentialism - Robert C. Solomon (via monotono-us)|
They stood precariously upon the precipice thrust out above the relatively calm ocean. The soft, sibilant wind caressed their cheeks, and the descending sun warmed their tense bodies while giving a breathtaking sheen to the water’s surface. Waves crashed against the jagged rocks seemingly…
Let me be your epidermis,
You will be,
In my protection.
Be my infection.
You can hide there
It was an obsession predicated on a tenuous connection between two vaguely similar entities; a connection on which the gradual acknowledgement of the disparities between the two was superimposed.
It was conceived in a futile hope for vicarious reconciliation; it devolved into a black and apathetic rivulet that now slithers its way into the vast abyss that once was filled with my heart, aggrandizing the cataract of dark humanity that plummets into the depths of the soul that no longer exists.
She was a dim beacon of hope, and now she has been reduced to another abortive attempt of my histrionic mind to retain the humanity wasted on me.
Yet despite all of this, any sheer denunciation of her importance stokes the flames of a dying fire; it produces an almost imperceptible scintillation in that abyss toward which my consciousness reaches with a contemptuous desperation.
But why should she matter? This emotionless throe shall soon direct itself toward another; the fallen climber shall perpetually seek a foothold as he dives inexorably toward nothing.
When I awake that morning, I shall feel the Earth shatter, and fear for a moment the advent of the Final Day.
Later, I shall realize it is only my heart flirting with its inevitable destruction.
I shall subsequently amble into The Garden, ensconced from the brutal winds of Man and His world by the impregnable stability of its root and vine network.
Later, I shall realize that the destruction of my heart lies in the very place I entrusted with my life.
I shall hazard toward the dark, asphalt lake, only to locate contiguous to it a transient arrangement of peculiarly manipulated flora.
Later, I shall sequester myself in the most dismal confines of my mind, futilely seeking solace in my knowledge of Man’s impotency.
My brothers and sisters shall be sitting before this peculiar arrangement; behind them their parents shall be lauding their incomplete growth and irrepressible dread.
Later, these parents shall return to the insufferable world of Man, hoping their children shall forgive them for forging their existences against their own volition.
She shall be present; she shall venture with ostensible intrepidity across the peculiar arrangement, she shall smile, and she shall gaze upon her contemporaries, who in turn shall gaze at her and tacitly hope for her suffering to be tolerable.
Later, they too shall venture across, hoping that their own suffering shall be tolerable.
My countenance shall express felicitation; my heart’s incessant writhing shall express a pain for which no word exists. She will not see me. But I will smile. She will smile. Together, we will smile as she is forced into the world of Man, in which nothing but contingencies can thrive.
Later, I shall somnambulatorily enter my room, and I shall dam the rivers flowing in a contorted fashion upon my florid cheeks.
When my eyes open, I will see her. She will see me. I will smile. She will smile. And she will walk, slowly, reluctantly, away from me.
A beautiful, condemned dream.
Now I have learned to expect less of them than they can give—a silent companionship. And their emotions, their friendship, and noble gestures keep their full miraculous value in my eyes; wholly the fruit of grace.
|—||Albert Camus, Notebooks 1935-1942 (via kolir)|
but so did everyone else’s.
That being said,
your arrangement of atoms will never happen again,
and in fact is a miracle that it happened at all.
So remember that when
Someone breaks your heart,
Remember both of you were forged
In the heart of dying stars,
And born by explosion,
And is it really a surprise
That you mimic the events
Of your creation?
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451