"we almost dated" is such a weird relationship to have with someone
Plus the sequel “we never got closure”
And then the side adaptation “as a result I have a weird crush that never died”
Every day that I don’t suffer from crippling anxiety I just feel so grateful and proud of myself to have gotten to where I am from where I was, but at the same time I wish I could do more to help people who are in the same position I was in because I know how hard it is and I just hope that they can also find a light at the end of the tunnel
— Joseph Conrad - The Secret Agent
Not only was the smiley face in the original, the top of the page actually said “My Page!” with a big smiley face next to it. I was clearly feeling chipper.
Maybe some adventures are better left incomplete. Some stories are just fragments and are left that way. Conclusions are rarely neat and pretty. Sometimes the best parts are the pragments. SOme things are more beautiful in their transience. Travel forces you to accept that. Or at least it should, but we never really do.
We’re all afraid of talking to each other, so when we do, we don’t want to let go. We cling to the people that we talk to, and try to find everybody and everything in these people. We see our hope and our failings in them.
— Aldous Huxley - The Doors of Perception
Found an essay I wrote whilst tripping on mushrooms in Amsterdam…
:) Artists are important, because we never see the same as anyone else. We become introduced to something outside of our small sphere of experience when we experience art. Artists see more than what is in front of them. They can transcend that. And we benefit from that, we get a tiny glimpse of their transcendence, and their transcendence is a tiny glimpse at something higher, greater than ourselves. And what’s why art is important. But it can’t really get anything across that it actually needs to because it is the spectator that art reveals, as Oscar Wilde says. But we can still get a glimpse. A tiny glimpse of some other sphere, and that’s important, even though we can only ever live in this tiny, narrow sphere of existence.
I wish I could draw, but I suppose we can only expose a tiny part of our soul through the medium we are blessed in. The rest remains a mystery to all but ourselves. And that’s kind of beautiful, even if it is a shame.
It looks like the ink is running off the page, but I write anyway. I write whether the in likes it or not. I write because I want to, and because I have to….
and obviously this is the point where I’m tripping way too hard to write any more.