. . . life involves maintaining oneself between contradictions that can't be solved by analysis.
. . . life involves maintaining oneself between contradictions that can't be solved by analysis.
My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Seven types of ambiguity.
A humanist, as I understand the term, says, This world is good enough for me, if only I can be good enough for it.
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.
. . . the waste even in a fortunate life, the isolation of a life rich in intimacy, cannot but be felt deeply, and is the central feeling of tragedy. And anything of value must accept this because it must not prostitute itself its strength is to be prepared to waste itself, if it does not get the opportunity.
It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.The more things happen to you the more you can'tTell or remember even what they were.
It seems unpleasantly refined to put things off till someone knows.
You don't want madhouse and the whole thing there.
The News, the conferences that leer,the creeping fog, the civil traps.These are what force you into fear.
It is the pain, it is the pain, endures.
Law makes long spokes of the short stakes of men.
Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end.
Attending there let us absorb the cultures of nationsAnd dissolve into our judgement all their codes.Then, being clogged, with a natural hesitation(People are continually asking one the way out),Let us stand here and admit that we have no road.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories