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Threshold
...she walked in through the out door.

Was she blinded by something she couldn't see, or blinded by seeing something she couldn't bear to look at? She was too tired to work anything out.
Edward St Aubyn, Mother's Milk


The calm amusement that comes with awareness.

Laugh about it, shout about it
When you’ve got to choose
Every way you look at it you lose.

Simon & Garfunkel, Mrs. Robinson

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Don't let me go and let me go

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I have a cold mind and a warm heart, whereas most people have cold, troubled hearts and warm, muggy minds, which they mistake for sincere feelings.
Alice B. Sheldon 1952

As I began to see how deeply destructive you are, how desperate your restless mind still throws itself against prison walls, how much anger is buried inside you - I began to understand what attracts me so deeply and dauntingly. And how thin its surface is! But

These days even the devil is getting overturned
And held up to the light like a glass of water.


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I am not at all the sort of person you and I took me for.
Jane Baillie Welsh, Letter to Thomas Carlyle, 7 May 1822




It's all about you.

Which hurts & pleases me.

I always feel uncomfortable in the centre of attention.

But I dissolve, anyway.


Remain a dream within your dream.

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Don't confuse
the pain of loss
with love
like you always do

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Such a strange calmness
Serenity
Maybe exhaustion
The composure one gets
In view of an insurmountable
Ice shelf
How often did I face it
Tired but confident

Ivan Aivazovsky - Black Sea at Night.jpg

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The mere word 'freedom' is the only one that still excites me. [...] Among all the many misfortunes to which we are heir, it is only fair to admit that we are allowed the greatest degree of freedom of thought. [...] Imagination alone offers me some intimation of what can be, and this is enough to devote myself to it without fear of making a mistake.
André Breton, Manifesto of Surrealism 1924


Dylan Thomas Writing Shed Laugharne, Wales II.jpg

I believe in the pure joy of the man who [...] sets off from whatever point he chooses, along any other path save a reasonable one, and arrives wherever he can.
André Breton, Manifesto of Surrealism 1924


So do I

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49



We'll say, that was just another time
One day, we will put it all behind
We'll say, that was just another day on Earth

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When I first caught your eye and you decided to come with me, you were probably thinking you would simply arrive and make yourself at home. Now that you’re actually here, the air is bitterly cold, and you find yourself being led along in complete darkness, stumbling on uneven ground, recognising nothing. [...]
And yet you did not choose me blindly. Certain expectations were aroused. Let’s not be coy: you were hoping I would satisfy all the desires you’re too shy to name, or at least show you a good time. Now you hesitate, still holding on to me, but tempted to let me go. When you first picked me up, you didn’t fully appreciate the size of me, nor did you expect I would grip you so tightly, so fast. Sleet stings your cheeks, sharp little spits of it so cold they feel hot, like fiery cinders in the wind. Your ears begin to hurt. But you’ve allowed yourself to be led astray, and it’s too late to turn back now.
Michel Faber, The Crimson Petal and the White




You live in a world of dreams, you thieved me into it, let me thrive until there was no place left for the real me. At first I didn't realise it, but then I smiled because I'm an experienced escapist myself, and so, at least, we shared realms not rooted to the ground.

https://dalaruan.livejournal.com/35029.html

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[...] Again and again she hurriedly appeared in the margins of my life, without influencing in the least its basic text. [...] Occasionally, in the middle of a conversation her name would be mentioned, and she would run down the steps of a chance sentence, without turning her head. [...]

And regardless of what happened to me or to her, in between, we never discussed anything, as we never thought of each other during the intervals in our destiny, so that when we met the pace of life altered at once, all its atoms were recombined, and we lived in another, lighter time-medium, which was measured not by the lengthy separations but by those few meetings of which a short, supposedly frivolous life was thus artificially formed. [...]

With an unbearable force, I relived (or so it now seems to me) all that had ever been between us beginning with a similar kiss; and I said (substituting for our cheap, formal “thou” that strangely full and expressive “you” to which the circumnavigator, enriched all around, returns), “Look here—what if I love you?” Nina glanced at me, I repeated those words, I wanted to add . . . but something like a bat passed swiftly across her face, a quick, queer, almost ugly expression, and she, who would utter coarse words with perfect simplicity, became embarrassed; I also felt awkward. . . . “Never mind, I was only joking,” I hastened to say, lightly encircling her waist. From somewhere a firm bouquet of small, dark, unselfishly smelling violets appeared in her hands, and before she returned to her husband and car, we stood for a little while longer by the stone parapet, and our romance was even more hopeless than it had ever been. But the stone was as warm as flesh, and suddenly I understood something I had been seeing without understanding—why a piece of tinfoil had sparkled so on the pavement, why the gleam of a glass had trembled on a tablecloth, why the sea was ashimmer: somehow, by imperceptible degrees, the white sky above Fialta had got saturated with sunshine, and now it was sun-pervaded throughout, and this brimming white radiance grew broader and broader, all dissolved in it, all vanished, all passed [...]
Vladimir Nabokov, Spring in Fialta


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Yes, I was miserable here. But what did I expect? I had brought myself along.
Sebastian Horsley, Dandy in the Underworld

You love the hope you needed desperately
You love to feel alive again
You love to see your vibrant reflection in a mirror
I'm just the water for your drought
I'm just the updraught for your tired wings
I'm just the illusion that age and death might spare you
What you love has to do with me, true
But you don't love me

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And what am I hanging around for /
riddled with what his silence said?
Anne Sexton, Lessons in Hunger


Silence feels like a dead end.
Like a door closed without a sound.
Like the stifled scream of a tell-tale heart.


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