Blanqui

 

"In infinity, eternity performs-imperturbably-the same routines."

"...a noisy humanity infatuated with its own grandeur, believing itself to be the universe and living in its prison as though in some immense realm..."

what a LOSER.

The Fall

Feelin' like Doriana Gray up in this..


That's all.

BLACK OUT

Our Deepest, Richest Chocolate Cake with Chocolate Chips, Finished with Almonds.

 Mmmm, that's sexy! #NoRegrets

Teenage Dream-Fuckin' A.

Why can't I just do it? Fucking bloody hell. If god is love and sex is lovely, why can't I have both?! Am I just being an ungreatful bitch? By not being willing to suppress my sexual appetite to "please god"? Y is giving into your id for a while so bad? Is hell even that bad? Idk anymore. From 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' and 'Secret Things', I've learned that manipulating people is bad, giving into love is good, and being honest and truthful is good. If people always comment on the love that burns within me, why does my father think I'm so lost? Y does he speak to me as if I'm of the devil? As if I have no love in my heart.. No god. Fuck people telling me who I am. If the way I live isn't really life, then I don't wanna fuckin' live. How can u tell me my life isn't beautiful. That the people in my life aren't beautiful? I'm sick to my stomach thinkin' about this shit. Every time I come home, I'm told my life, that I've worked so hard to have, is in shambles. As if he knew how glorious those 2am walks home were. As if he knew of the love letters. As if he had even the slightest idea how much I inspire those around me to love hard. Please, GTFO. I can't do this anymore. I don't feel at home anymore. I am a stranger here.  As hard as it is for me to say, my home is not here. I am thankful for all they've done for me. But, I am disappointed they don't recognize the joy I've come to have and be. I'm disappointed they don't recognize that that joy stems from things honest, lovely and good. Fuck it. Damn it. Damn it all to hell. Your god is suffocating me! My only covenant is to love. End of story mothafuckas.

'Secret Things'

Mind blown.

"Femmes fatales are either narcissists or lesbians. They are frigid with men.  They come when they want to, which isn't often. It's their strength." -Nathalie

"The wise do not mourn the dead or the living." -Cristophe: witnessed mother's death. subsequently powerful and fearless, yet vulnerable to death. "Don't shoot yourself...you don't even exist." C soon forgotten.

Now we can enter into the * of princes. incest. break ties to moral/civil code. freedom of libidinal desires--the id. chaotic. decadent. sinful. temporary. obsolete. 

Death is omnipresent.

Vonnegut's Trafalmadorians- "So it goes" response to death.

Dark theatre

 They say good friends make the best lovers...

'One Day' Trailer

Tryin'/Learnin' to adore the ordinary.

Emerson on Love,

For though the celestial rapture falling out of heaven seizes only upon those of tender age, and although a beauty overpowering all analysis or comparison and putting us quite beside ourselves we can seldom see after thirty years, yet the remembrance of these visions outlasts all other remembrances, and is a wreath of flowers on the oldest brows. But here is a strange fact; it may seem to many men, in revising their experience, that they have no fairer page in their life's book than the delicious memory of some passages wherein affection contrived to give a witchcraft, surpassing the deep attraction of its own truth, to a parcel of accidental and trivial circumstances. In looking backward they may find that several things which were not the charm have more reality to this groping memory than the charm itself which embalmed them. But be our experience in particulars what it may, no man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and brain, which created all things anew; which was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and art; which made the face of nature radiant with purple light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a single tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the most trivial circumstance associated with one form is put in the amber of memory; when he became all eye when one was present, and all memory when one was gone; when the youth becomes a watcher of windows and studious of a glove, a veil, a ribbon, or the wheels of a carriage; when no place is too solitary and none too silent, for him who has richer company and sweeter conversation in his new thoughts than any old friends, though best and purest, can give him; for the figures, the motions, the words of the beloved object are not like other images written in water, but, as Plutarch said, "enamelled in fire," and make the study of midnight:— 


"Thou art not gone being gone, where'er thou art,
Thou leav'st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy
loving heart."

 

Naija O

 It's not fair...why am I so blessed when my people back home (Nigeria) live in shambles?

I guess, I just got lucky.

Fuck Me.

God Bless Nigeria...even though the politicization of 'God' is basically the root of all this mess.

Ha- to the muthafuckin-ram.

The Hollow Men Eliot, Thomas Stearns (1888-1965)

MISTAH KURTZ -- HE DEAD.
A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us--if at all--not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer--

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
and avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
and the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.