I watch him with detachment; he notices nothing. Every move I make is sodden with unreality. When no one is around, I bite my fingers. I need to feel physical pain to attach myself to daily life. My body is a separate thing. It ticks like a clock; time is inside it. It has betrayed me, and I am disgusted with it.
I can no longer control these paintings, or tell them what to mean. Whatever energy they have came out of me. I'm what's left over.
Tao Lin- Eeeee Eee Eeee
He felt tired. He existentially had the urge to repeatedly say, "I'm bored," even if he was not bored. He was always bored. Whenever he said something not "I'm bored" he felt a little agitated, and censored.
He should have moved closer. He was too depressed. He is always too depressed. Should've been happier and laughing. He forgot to be happy. He was too bored to be happy.
...and would try, then, to desire, in this missed and wanting and therefore nostalgic way, the present moment, when feeling lonely or sad; to experience it while it was happening as the thing he would later yearn for--to realize, as it was happening, that feeling bad was a mistake--as if it were words on a page, being read and not lived.
Margaret Atwood- Alias Grace
While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me--drawing on my skin--not with the pencil he is using, but with an old fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings.
...And underneath that there is another feeling still, a feeling like being torn open; not like a body of flesh, it is not painful as such, but like a peach; and not even torn open, but too ripe and splitting open of its own accord. And inside the peach there is a stone.