You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can’t start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It’s like quicksand… hopeless from the start.
Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
Why don’t you go? Stop thinking selfishly of razors and self-wounds and going out and ending it all. Your room is not your prison. You are.
What obsession do men have for destruction and murder? Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?”
What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle-age.