Philosophers and poets are in the business of saying things as inscrutably as possible. The less understood they are the better as far as they are concerned. And who could argue with this strategy, the success of which rings resoundingly through century after century of human history?
Is it possible to love those we have occasion to hate? Of course! This is in fact a sign your love for someone is true.1
Saying I wish something were true is tantamount to accepting it never will be. Hope neutered in other words. Remember this the next time you tell your kid to blow out the candles on their birthday cake.
If I am reincarnated as a colour, I’d like to be blue. Failing that, orange. If I were to come back as white, I’d top myself.
Uncontrollable, all-pervasive anxiety is corrosive as hell. Always approach with caution and make sure you are wearing protective clothing.
Some of the people that matter most to me are not necessarily even aware of my existence. Conversely, those who are aware of my existence I tend to barely even notice.
Group therapy is bunkum. Not only will it normalise your histrionic tendencies, it will also make you realise (like really realise) there are genuinely crazy people in the world. Neither of these things are worth paying good money for.
Writing into the void: all I have ever known and probably all I will ever know. And so what? Not having any readers means I can say whatever the fuck I want with zero fear of repercussions.
Thought, culture, call it what you will, is combinatorial in nature; forever striving, in other words, to impregnate itself with itself.
