For once, I would love to actually feel in love with life. I always write about it, fantasise about it, but if I’m gonna be honest, I’ve never felt it.
I don’t know what it’s like to enjoy life, to live because you actually want to, to do things because you actually enjoy them. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like a human, more like a being that has to do things, provide, fix and endure. I don’t think I have lived for me yet, I always do what will make others feel good. I don’t even know who I am. Whenever I’m alone, it feels like I’m sitting next to a stranger. I want to get to know them, but they won’t talk to me or even look at me. I am 23 and I don’t know if those years are even mine to begin with. I’m 23 and the person I see in the mirror is a complete stranger to me. -I.M-
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{Words by Anaïs Nin, from The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4 (1944-1947) / Cynthia Cruz from diagnosis,The glimmering room}
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imagination (1963) - harold ordway rugg
"chekhovs cat / schrödingers razor / occams gun"
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Read, read, read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You'll absorb it. Then write. If it's good, you'll find out. If it's not, throw it out of the window.
— William Faulkner.
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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
-Sylvia Plath
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The soul always knows what to do to heal itself, the challenge is to silence the mind.
Book of serenity
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