Of Lilies and Daisies E-Book

Jakob Reul

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 738

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Of Lilies and Daisies. Of Lilies and Daisies. Of Lilies and Daisies.

Das E-Book Of Lilies and Daisies wird angeboten von BoD - Books on Demand und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:
Experimental-Literatur,Found Manuscript deustsch,Tiefgründige Tagebuchliteratur,Tagebücher literarische Form,Geschichten über Verzweiflung

Leseprobe

The story of this publication is odd. I stumbled upon a deserted house, in which I found a pile of notes, from which I selected the below extracts. The notes are not dated, so I’m not certain that I’m doing the chronology justice. As to the author, I cannot claim to know their identity. Truth compels me to add that I find their writing neurotic, troublesome, and at times disturbing. However, I understand it as my editorial duty to publish it in its original form. My reader may be advised that, by all appearances, we are dealing with a deeply troubled soul, and we are not to read it uncritically.

To long for something that is so close, you can almost touch it. That’s the poetic beauty I aim for. I just want to despair over my despair, and never move out of it.

To have it, is not beautiful. To not have it, is not beautiful either. To almost have it, that’s perfect. One almost does, and yet one doesn’t. It remains an idea, essentially.

The main body part of a spider is leg. That’s what’s so spooky about them. A leg needs to be a subordinate body part, not the main body part. It’s not what God intended.

Take me into that land called oblivion. I will run there, walk there, creep there, if necessary.

Fading is disappearing, into the night, or to cease as one existed, unrecognized. Cease the day, as they say. Slowly I depart into the land called oblivion.

To fade means to disappear without being spotted. If you’re spotted, you’re no longer fading. You’re leaving. It becomes an act, or an action. Departure has to be unnoticed. To slowly fade away. To leave, without being noticed. Or to know one is leaving, without anyone realizing. To be understood as being present, yet in a way you have left. This is what it means to fade. To fade from the situation, to fade away from them. They must never notice, or it becomes a thing of arguments, and discussions. It destroys the whole beauty of it. To fade away in plain sight of everyone. To be gone one day. That is beautiful. To feel the sadness you withhold from them.

Fading is the process of disappearing in plain sight.

A snow flake is a most beautiful thing. Incredible, how such beauty can be produced by nature in almost random fashion. Man is often used as proof of something higher, but I can do with nature alone to believe in man. A snowflake, on the other hand, is too beautiful, to have emerged randomly. If there is a God, it would be elegant to reveal the fact through the form of a snowflake. I would hide the Godliness of the universe into a slight and fading detail. A snowflake would be worthy, because it’s small, so small that you really have to find it first, then look at it in detail, study it, and be in awe with it, fall in love with it, then take it to speculate on the hidden sense of the world. The snowflake offers a direct path to God, and I mean this quite seriously. Something so beautiful must indicate that there is more.

How can nature create such beauty as blue snow? Oh I forgot! It can’t. That’s only my mind playing tricks on me. I watch in awe, as my mind wanders. A little madness has never done any harm. The problem is it always escalates into a little more. One never stays ‚a little mad’ for long.

The cold turns your sentiment into a matching climate. The air matches your sadness with her coldness. It’s the loving coldness she only gives to those who acknowledge her. The air can be your friend if you befriend it.

It strikes me, that this is not nature. This is me. I’m projecting my misery into nature. Yet I can’t help but to admire it. My misery is coming alive. A starry night. True beauty. When it’s dark in the mind, the world becomes a picture.

If you only see the light, you will dread the night, for it gives you little to look at. The idea is to see another world when it’s dark. Darkness is like silence, only for the eyes.

A physical canvas is white and the hands paint onto it. But the spiritual canvas is black. Most people leave it empty, for the dark is not conceived by them as something that can be painted on. Yet that’s expressedly what the dark is for. The eyes are two-directional, this is often misunderstood. Our eyes are not just receiving, they’re also transmitting. They reflect the world into ourselves, as well as ourselves into the world. In darkness we are everything, at light we’re reduced.

We see what we seek.

To walk in the night. To be surrounded by it. The night is made for pride to fade. To sacrifice all vanity.

To pour out, to diffuse. To dissolve in the night, to become one with it. To see the things, unseen by day.

A bland soul can never sympathize. One has to know pain to relieve it. To relive it. That’s the key. Oh what a beautiful thing it is when two miserable souls understand each other and their misery fades.

To not bring them down to your level. To bring yourself down to theirs. To join their misery, so they’re not alone in it.

To soothe the storm by walking into it.

When one looks in the mirror and sees a grimace. My eyes collapse in my sockets, my smile is a grin.

I come alive in misery. I’m cheering for the loosing team. There is a peculiar joy in that. One would almost be disappointed if the losing team turned out to be winning.

There is something so shattering about being miserable on a beautiful day.

To live right on the edge of misery and joy is to feel alive.

My life is unique. It will either fail uniquely, or succeed uniquely. It will probably fail uniquely. But I haven’t given up.

Writing is creating from imagination.

I think on paper now. For the longest time, I didn’t consider it possible. I thought when I thought, and I wrote when I wrote. But it’s different now. I don’t think anymore, for only on paper I do. Only when I write, I start thinking again. My life has been transferred onto the sheet of paper.

Ever since I think like that, I have lost the ability to speak. I’m not unhappy about it. But I am surprised. My thoughts are in my words now, and without them, I hardly think at all. It becomes a fog of sentiment and reflection, but it’s eerily imprecise. Which is odd, for my writing used to be like that.

My thoughts were sharp, my words were never. Now the roles have been reversed. If one writes a lot and speaks little, writing becomes what speaking used to be: the primary means of one’s expression. Thought is affected too, for its major medium is no longer speech, but the written word. The writing acquires a precision which thought and speech used to have. I guess I live on paper now. Don’t get me wrong, I like it. I’m just confused. I didn’t expect this to happen.

When every word you say, is a word spoken by a stranger. Then you’ve navigated yourself into quite the situation.

This is a time that says: never give up. But giving up can be a beautiful thing. Fighting is tiring, it corrupts our souls. It makes us tough, yes, but it kills our innocence. Our youth is easily lost in this fight. To not fight, to accept, is a beautiful way of preserving yourself. Giving up is only defeat if we consider it defeat. It can be considered a win. For we are no longer tilting at windmills. To spend your life fighting is not a good way of living. It turns you cynical, and crude.

Acceptance is not appreciated in a society which always wants more. Fighting makes you miserable, who ever talks about that? It doesn’t improve your life. It replaces it. Life becomes a fight, and that’s not the point. There’s nothing to win at the end of life. At the end of life, life is over. To consider life a fight is a reliable way of becoming miserable, and mean-spirited. Toward oneself and everybody else.

Acceptance is a virtue. People don’t understand this, but this is to be expected, for we live in crazy times. If we were to accept more and fight less, we would be better off. To accept doesn’t mean you become powerless or weak. Often it leads to real spiritual growth. When you keep chasing, without capturing, you should discontinue the chase. Or chase something else. When all people look in the same place, it’s wisdom to look in another. Chasing, fighting, and for what? Don’t chase what you can’t get. It’s a simple rule to life, but seldom respected. If you can’t get it, stop chasing it. Chase something else. You should always choose what you chase, but you shouldn’t always chase what you choose. Don’t fight a losing battle. Fight a different one. It’s much easier to manage expectations than to manage the world. You can be anything, truly anything, by managing your expectations.

One should not think, if only it could have happened. One must realize that it couldn’t have happened any other way. To accept what happened because one understands that it was necessary. And to make peace with it. To be fine, and not even sad about the past. Not everything has come true, but you genuinely tried. To accept that some things are just not meant to be. Many things, in fact. You only see the heroes, you never see the failed heroes. But they exist in abundance. Once you learn acceptance, your view changes. You realize how much closer fighting is to failing. Failing spiritually. It’s like an eternal immaturity. To try and solve the same math problem over and over. Never getting anywhere, yet one never stops trying. It’s a bizarre way of living. It’s stalling life more than actually living. It pushes life in front of you, as though you can only start living, once the fight is won. It never is, the fight continues, and one never starts living. When one learns acceptance, one sees it with almost clarity. Fighting is not living, it’s a way of not living. The fight is never over, so life is never begun. It’s a tragic existence. Acceptance is a way out. The road doesn’t end there, it’s the running that ends. It’s a well-needed readjustment. Acceptance takes you home to yourself. ‚Never give up!’, forget that advice. ‚Accept‘ is a much better advice.

Whenever I take a nap, my mind is so confused. It says, what’s happening, are we shutting down? I say, yes, only for a while. Then it says, but it’s the middle of the day, is this a drill? I say, no, it’s the real deal. Then it says, so what am I supposed to do now? I say, just take five, and when I say five, I mean thirty. Then it says, so I’m going to feverishly think of the most absurd scenarios imaginable? I say, no, I’d rather you didn’t. Then it says, gotcha! And then I take a nap and for twelve and a half minutes I feverishly dream of the most absurd scenarios imaginable. I never not regret taking a nap. It never relaxes me. After the nap, I need a nap, more than I needed it before. I should stop napping altogether.

Loneliness is the disease. Solitude is the cure. How beautifully paradox. The thing that afflicts you is the thing that will save you.

The aim is not to become like everybody else. The aim is to stay who you are despite the hardships. To change, but according to yourself, not according to others. To not let go of your afflictions for they show you the path.

To give up something which you never had. It still feels like a loss. Like in theory, if all the stars had been aligned, and the Earth had rotated at twice the speed, it could have happened. Even in moments of bliss, I would have been miserable. This is wisdom, to know that happiness was never an option.

Her glance was beautiful. I didn’t think she would notice me. I was polite about it, I only looked briefly. It was then that she looked at me. I loved her in an instant. I’m sure she saw it. A girl like her must have seen many fools like I. But I felt bad about it. It must be unfortunate to be beautiful like her. Everyone calls you beautiful. It begins there, it ends there. They’re not really looking at her. Nor was I. I was only seeing her beauty. I made myself not look at her, but this was even worse, for everything I looked at, still seemed so intense to me. I was intensively looking at the wall. You’re not supposed to look at a wall, let alone intensively. It felt strange, so I escaped back to her. She still looked at me, and I felt like a fool. Only briefly, for then I was caught in her glance again. It was beautiful. And that was the end of it.

There was something about her glance, I cannot put my finger on it. It’s the potentiality that makes it such a beautiful moment. It’s not about reality, for you don’t know her and she doesn’t want to know you. In the exchange of looks, there is no word spoken. It can be anything, for it doesn’t have to be something. You get a glimpse of hope, a moment of bliss, or a hint of something that could be, but only could.

Hoping is lying about reality.

How to help a grief-stricken soul? To cheer her up? Or to embrace her misery? The latter of course. Only a fool would cheer up a grief-stricken soul.

She was miserable. She was beautiful. I saw that from the start. I fell into her misery, like a seaman falling from a ship.

I fell into her misery. It was a beautiful place, for she was there. She lived in that place. I said to her, your misery is beautiful and so are you. She smiled a little, for I was a right fool again. I said foolish things, as we all do when we’re in love. But I liked her misery. It was her home, and she invited me to it. It was an underwater palace. You had to dive to get there. Once you reached it, you could enter. It was a cave, devoid of water. Like a cave in the mountains, only in the water. Here she was sitting, on the top of the stairs. She was sitting on the top step, her head bowed down. I saw her when I entered. And so I approached. I walked slowly, for she was easily startled. When she was, she wouldn’t talk anymore. You only startled her once. As I walked toward her, the world was silent. In this cave there was no sound. I could only hear my own steps. I walked on marble of sorts. She still didn’t notice me. Her head bowed down. I walked up the stairs and sat down next to her. I would wait for her to look up. Sometimes it would take her a while, but eventually she would. She would raise her head and look me right in the eye. How beautiful she would be at that moment. I cannot describe her well. Her eyes carried a sadness which was beyond expression. She was more sadness than girl. Her glance was still. She was beyond hope. That’s how she felt anyway. She looked at me, almost idly. How beautiful her idle glance. Her hair so long, like she was a princess from a foreign land. She was born and lived in dream. She never said a word. She registered me, but only just. I wonder what she saw when she looked at me. I did not make her speak. I don’t think I would have succeeded. I waited for a smile that never occurred. She only ever looked at me. I loved her anyway. For I loved her beyond expression. It was here that our love was complete. When I whispered, she listened with intent. Her silent glance was her way of smiling. When I was there, she forgot her misery. I told her beautiful things. About the world and herself. She became calm, very calm. Her anxiety was gone, and so was her sadness. I know she knows this. I know she does. And yet she forgot it eventually.

One had to dive deep, all the way to the bottom of the ocean. Finally, one came upon a cave. The cave was not filled with water. It was an oasis of air, deep in the ocean. I entered this majestic place, which was sealed from the ocean outside. The cave was a hundred meters wide, and perhaps fifty meters high. The waters were shining through, as the walls of the cave were transparent. The sun came through, all the way from above. It was a bright, beautiful cave, with nothing in it, except for air and light. There was a stairway, in the middle, it was beautiful white marble. An ancient Roman looking stairway, flat steps, only a dozen or so. There she was, sitting at the top, bowed down, her legs tucked up. The only noise I hear is coming from my steps on the cave floor. I sit down next to her. She still doesn’t move. And so I whisper to her.

I walked home. I had no hope, and no clue where I was. I tried to walk by memory, and that’s never a good idea. One always ends up somewhere else. I took out my phone, just to realize I should have taken out my phone a long time ago. Of course I had forgotten to, for I had been in thought. I always sink into thought as soon as I’m by myself. Thought is my guidance, thought my undoing. Thought my elevation, thought my dismay. Either thought is my only friend in the world, or my worst enemy. One day I’ll find out which one it is. It’s always ambiguous when one listens to one’s thoughts. You never know if they speak the truth. To be free of illusion. To be free in illusion. Life has broken me in two pieces, like the huntsman breaking his firewood. Life has humbled me. More than necessary. Honestly. Life has crushed me.

So I walked home. It was eerily quiet. I heard my voice talking to me. Where were you, it asked. Where were you, I replied. It said, you’re still going to these awful people. I said, I have to. It said, why do you have to? I said, convention, I guess. It said, I’m not going there with you. I said, wait, who am I talking to? And it spoke no more. So I kept walking, and I became miserable, utterly miserable.

It was snowing, which I liked. I love the noise of a snowed in city. Shshsh. Chuchuchu. Krrrkrrr. Those are the noises. Winter is for the silent people. Let the happy people have their spring and summer. The winter belongs to us. If only we weren’t even more miserable then.

I was happy in dream. I was so blissfully unaware. Anyone could have insulted me, I would have smiled gently. In my dream I wasn’t a conqueror. I had nothing, and yet I had everything. The dream is what I miss above all, or the state.

A dream has to remain a dream. To long for something, without saying a word. To attempt fate only in theory, in practice to accept it. To swim out into the darkness, never thinking of how to return.

One should never try to turn dream into reality, as this is a safe way of destroying both. Dream will be degraded by being subordinated to reality, while reality will be degraded by being compared to dream. One must protect dream from reality, as well as reality from dream. Dream is to be kept within, while reality must be managed. Neither will we bring dream into reality, for this will quickly deflate the dream, nor will we bring reality into dream, for it will turn reality into the saddest endeavor. One should neither abandon dream nor reality. One must protect both in their respective realm. If one is lucky, one finds a way to be happy in both. One should not become a realist at the expense of no longer being a dreamer. One must be a realist while remaining a dreamer.

I saw a woman sitting on a bench. She was weeping. I did not approach her. But I imagined. Imagination is the better reality anyway. One is not so limited. I imagined talking to her about her grievances. I would ask her what she most desperately thought. What she most desperately sought. If only she told me, I could alleviate her pain. People die within, when they can’t share their afflictions. But that’s not how the real world works. She would have looked at me funny. My thoughts are for the departed.

If only I could have gone to her, and she would have told me what made her sad. I would have listened to her beautiful tales. Praying to every word she sang. She didn’t even have to know my name. All I wanted was to be there for her. But I couldn’t. I only looked at her, and let her be.

She was alone, and I couldn’t help. I felt so utterly sad. I ventured, but only in thought. I wanted to know about her grief. And perhaps she would have liked. But perhaps she would have not. Sometimes grief wants to share, sometimes grief wants it not, and nothing is worse than interrupting someone’s grief. All I wanted was to talk to that woman. I stayed away. And again, I felt like a failure.

To overcome sadness, one must be sad, entirely and throughout. I want to motivate people’s sadness. I want to make them not happier but sadder still. Because that’s the paradox. It often heals them.

I hate that things are the way they are. I don’t understand why not everyone should be my friend. If only I could be the ears for their weeping hearts. I want to carry their burdens.

To be the one they can share with. To be a brother. To not give hope, but consolation. To conceive their thoughts. Not to leave sadness behind, but to persist in it. Not to overcome, but to succumb. To give up, finally.

To listen. To care. To be simple and kind. To give them faith, that relief is possible, and it will come surely.

To be the bridge they cross, over the angry river. To be the stars they look at, to rediscover their ways. To be the ears they need, to let go of their thought.

I wish I could have gone to that woman. I reckon she was around 45. And sad she was. She would have found it odd. The world is not made for people like I. One cannot tell a stranger one wants to die for them.

I saw a woman in the park, near the graveyard, and she was crying. My only wish was to go and console her. To sit with her, through the night, if necessary. To let hours pass, and forget you exist. To see her smile, through her agony, because you can only be sad for so long. To hear her out, when all is lost. The darkest night, the light will pierce, nothing stops thy blissful light. Let me be your silent companion.

Through the night, and through the tears, I found myself so drawn to her. My dream again came unto me. My dream again, I dream again. I dream again, this gentle soul, I couldn’t help but love her so. Images, of Blake and Keats, I found again, beneath my thoughts. I saw her then, this beautiful, this beautiful, had found me thus. No words of mine have heard of thee, but you again, my everything. I loved her so. I loved her so. I loved her, loved her, loved her so. And only once I called her mine. And only then my sun would shine. And ever since, my sun has set, forever since my darkness came. My darkness is my everything. I cling to it, throughout the night, the night that never endeth now. I find myself in agony. In memory, I have her still.

I saw a woman in the park. All I wanted was to console her but I knew it wasn’t appropriate. So I let her grieve in peace, and I escaped into my thoughts again.

Shallow nature of things. I want to return to the fog. I’m never myself when I’m with people. Who liberates my soul from my body. Depraved of substantial thought. For every word I utter I want to add an apology.

The sin is to be conscious. One never lives better than in times of oblivion. I turned myself into a sinner, when I took my dream into reality, and shattered it, like throwing the most beautiful marble against the rocks. I’m missing this marbling world of mine. Marbellous, it was marbellous. I wish I could go back to being the dreamer I was.

Her tender face, her pretty hair, her shameful eye, her palest skin, her world collapses, and her sins, my world collapses, ever since. I never get to dream of her, I flee the dream, to flee from her. True she was, and beautiful. The only one, I loved so much.

To abstain. That is the key. To not engage, to never mingle. To inhale. To absorb. To enter the fire, burning still. To not flee the dark, but to investigate it. Solitude is everything. One finally hears one’s proper thoughts. I like to fall, head over heels, into dark, dark nothingness. Nothingness, I found in you, a most surprising fairytale. A tale of bliss and misery.

One can become the most courageous emperor if one is indifferent toward oneself. To dare the great, to never seize, to walk among the faithful lot. Among the shadows, I am home, among the shadows, I belong. Spare a tear, for those who are, long forgotten since.

Thy every word, within your thoughts, thy every thought is mine. Together, you and I we are, blissfully, oh blissfully.

To help an inflicted mind, one has to listen, and not in the common sense of the word. One has to listen with one’s soul. One has to fall into every word they say. One has to dissolve in the moment. To truly help, one has to become them.

Only the heart can understand an inflicted mind. Where the heart is weak, the mind is generic. Every word is somewhat dry. Yet when the heart is right, there is no limitation.

To help an inflicted mind, one has to see them truly, and purely. In order to do that one has to self-abandon. One has to fall into the other like a crevice. One has to — not absorb — but be absorbed. One has to float in their words like a river. One has to look into their eyes like the night sky. One has to feel their warmth like a warm summer wind. One has to sense their emotion like one senses the earth.

I stayed when she left, in this prison of mine, this prison of mind, this prism of mind, breaks down the world, into rays and remorse, I dream, and I dream, indubitably.

To help an inflicted mind, only an inflicted mind can accomplish. An uninflicted lacks what is needed to unite what is two. Two becomes one, when one is abandoned, one or the other, has to be gone. A misery shared, there’s bliss in despair, there is faithful reunion, of him and of her.

Thy memorable eye, thy memorable sigh, thy memorable word, thy memorable tear.

The sinking feeling when you fall into dream. I always have the reverse when I’m with people. I sink into shallowness. I fall from depth. I fall from grace. Every word I utter is one too many. The only good word is the word not spoken.

Never have I spoken a true word. I could, of course, but they would not. Begin to grasp. We would just be awkward together. I prefer to be awkward by myself.

I talked to them, and they were excited. About what? I don’t know. I let it happen. Like a river running down, like the wind shaking the leaves of a train of trees, so their words sounded to my distant ear. Quite remote, I was never there.

They spoke and spoke, a little more, I couldn’t bear.

He was happy. And I was happy for him. I’m not a cynic. I’m too indifferent for that. Life has not broken me, it has bored me. There is a difference. I want people to be happy, by all means. I just wish they didn’t have to tell me about it.

Blissful melody. Like opening all windows on a quiet summer night. Wind carries me away, takes me away. Alas! Take out the trash. Leave the pieces. Leave me in pieces. Left me in pieces. Belief is virtue. No more virtue left in me then.

I always feel apologetic during and after every word I say. My urge is to explain myself — to myself. Why have I just spoken. And what. Every word feels wrong. So wrong, that I don’t even care to explain what is right. Welcome to the abyss. You may want to leave this place. We all do.

When I, instead of a face, make a grimace, it’s because I have spoken. Every word I say I want to chase with an apology. I have this vision to never say a word again. Or to deliberately say one last word, and then mute for the rest of time.

Absurdities, absurdities. The true absurdity is to carry on. I saw an abandoned house. It was in the forest. I went inside of course, as someone would who doesn’t really care about what happens to him. I looked and explored. It left me underwhelmed. I pictured myself living there.

It’s funny when you reach a point where you no longer care about your fate. It almost becomes exciting in its own way. I went into an empty house in the woods. It was deserted and clearly no one had set foot in it in a long time. Really it was more of a ruin. Naturally I felt drawn to it. I went in, and I saw what I expected. An abandoned house. I pictured myself living there, but it didn’t lift up my spirits. I was still around, and that is usually the part that depresses me.

I walked around the house, and I pictured myself living there. I would do the walls, all over again, and how I would do this? In my imagination I can do anything. I would fix up the house, refurbish it. That’s a good word. Refurbish. Here I would cook, and here I would sleep. Here I would think, and here I would read. I would go outside, too, into the beautiful forest. I would return to my beautiful house.

I walked around the house. The smell was not very homely, but not a bad smell either. It was the smell of an old house that hasn’t been inhabited. I don’t know how to describe that smell. I looked at the walls, and the floor, and then I walked upstairs. I didn’t know if I could trust the stairs, but I didn’t care enough to mind. I tried my luck and came out on top. The upstairs was beautiful, too. In my memory that is, for in reality it looked pretty shabby. Here I would talk to the imaginary girl I would love very dearly. Here I would tell her that all will be fine. Here I would tell her that eventually I will sell some of my work. Here she would tell me that this is ridiculous and it will never happen. I looked outside the window, which didn’t have a window anymore. So I looked outside the window frame. I saw the evening sun flooding through the beautiful forest. The sunset is never more beautiful than in the forest. I had to make my way back. It became dark, and I respect the dark. One should never underestimate nature, for she is mighty indeed. Those who don’t respect her, will soon be swallowed by her. When night is approaching, it’s time to withdraw. I left the house, intending to go back. I haven’t yet, but I’m planning to.

Today, I told a man that I thought a bumblebee was a bird. He almost went mad trying to convince me otherwise. I wonder how you could not sense that this is not serious talk. I’m always amazed by seemingly smart people not catching this sort of thing. It’s almost a stupidity in itself. I know a lot of people who are not exactly geniuses but they would have realized that I wasn’t serious. And I’m not saying people who know me. Even people who don’t. For they have the instincts for it. They can tell when someone is joking. This statement, that a bumblebee is a bird, is so clearly nonsensical, that I can’t believe that anyone would believe that anyone would believe that. I would instantly laugh a little, and so would my counterpart, in this example me. But they don’t. They are smart people, and yet stupid somehow. It’s strange, isn’t it. I guess they may only exist in terms of truth and reality and the factual. They live on the surface, they don’t have layers.

Friendship can be a curse as much as a blessing.

I always thought I knew what was best for me. Now I realize that what I considered best for me, wasn’t even good for me.

One reaches a level where only misery consoles.

When misery is denied, it’s often that we deny ourselves. We try to be who we are not, and arguably this is what created our misery in the first place. Misery is often the sign that the life we lead is not made for us. This is one of the paradoxical facts of human nature that makes us want to abandon all reason in favor of sentiment. Reason says we should be happy, but we feel miserable. Perhaps our reason is flawed.

Before the flower blossoms, it sprouts. Life is created from within. This is the breathtaking beauty of life. Life emerges from thin air, to which it eventually returns.

Misery is painful when it’s contrasted with a reality we feel entitled to. Our thoughts make our misery worse, for they’re a constant reminder of how we should feel. But who are we to determine this? We need to stop telling ourselves how to feel. The fear of being unhappy is a dangerous thing. It keeps us from learning and experiencing what we need to learn and experience. We should not deny our misery, or pretend we’re not really miserable. Misery should be allowed in, like a guest that you welcome into the house. Misery shouldn’t be left waiting outside. In that case, it will never leave, and your mind will always be occupied with it. When misery is not fought, when it’s befriended, good things can happen. Misery is of temporary nature. But not if it’s denied, in which case it sticks around in the unresolved form.

To master this craft of capturing the soul of another, by consoling their mind, is very delicate, and at times dangerous when misused. But it’s powerful, and when used cautiously and respectfully, it’s beautiful. People should not feel lonely, this is a great injustice. It’s an ethical responsibility to console the sad. But support begins with understanding the other. One should not impose, instead receive. The grief of another alleviates when it’s shared. The best way to help the miserable is to feel their misery. Find it within yourself. It begins with the sentiment. A misery expressed must become a misery experienced. Bear in mind, the miserable express their misery because they experience it. You understand them based on their expression, but you must work yourself back to the experience. The miserable person gives some of her misery to you. You take it, upon yourself, for it means that she loses some of it. You must help a person in misery, it’s your ethical duty. Those who look away, contribute to the misery silently. Misery must be met with sentiment. Thought is only supposed to communicate the shared experience. Whose basis remains the sentiment. Where the sentiment is lacking, no commiseration takes place. Therefore when you meet a person in misery, try your best to feel their misery.

Since it’s not your misery, it will fade soon after. But for now you must feel it. Your sentiment and words will resonate in the other person, and there they alleviate the pain.

Heavy thoughts. Light feelings. Recipe of demise.

There is something beautiful about walking in the night. When all is deserted, and the world belongs to you a little more. At day the skies are limited. At night these limitations disappear. You see infinitely. If your eyes were any better you’d see a little more. Why do we feel constricted at night, when it’s day that constricts us? I look at the stars, and I find them beautiful. Isn’t it beautiful that there are so many of them. Why would this scare us, when it’s so fascinating.

It’s beautiful to walk in the night. There is an element of privacy, which pleases us quieter souls. We shall be quiet, as quiet as night. We shall observe and reflect. At night, we are returned to ourselves. Night is our home, we are born from it. During day, we belong to the Earth. At night, we belong to the universe. Our glance is never stopped, it goes on forever.

I like the night, for it doesn’t pretend. The night shows you the reality of things. You cannot pretend at night, for the night is omission. It removes the added elements. The night is a reminder of who we are not. It serves as our conscience, and many people can’t stand that. The night takes away our illusions. We must trust our night personality more than our day personality. At night the external factors vanish, and the internal factors reappear. At night we realize who we are at heart. Night should lead you, not scare you. Day should scare you, if it scares you at night. Never fear the night, for the night is beautiful, and what is beautiful never lies.

Night omits the lies of day. When it scares you, what you become at night, you should be scared of day. Clearly you are living in a house of cards. Tear it down. Let night be your guide. When night begins, be extra careful, for it’s here that the truth makes its way to you. The lies of day are revealed and ridiculed by the truths of night. Those who drown their souls at night, are corrupted. Their minds have become the yes-men of a world that glorifies the body and nullifies the soul. One should never betray one’s soul in this fashion.

At night I find, my blissful fate, in agony, yet sympathy, to all the souls, abandoned are, a lonely soul is never lone. It’s one of them, and two of them, and three of them, and four, and five of them, and six of them, and many many more.

Through the night, I find myself, reflecting in despair, yet find some little hope in there, in every thought I spare.

We must apply our minds to the dark. We shall wait for night, to start painting again. Thought paints best, when day has ended. The strongest minds are those who see their thoughts.

Thought should never be suppressed. The only thing that should be suppressed is that which suppresses thought.

As the world does, it steals our thoughts. Our prayers are pathetic, we pray for little things. We should think when others act, and when they speak, we should be silent. We are minds, not brains, whatever they say.

At night, we see it, all so clear. That thought alone should reign the world. Thought is something glorious, for thought and night, are siblings still.

Our thoughts go deep, our hearts undeterred. Our truest and truest, finally appears. The soul never cries, she whispers at best, and only is heard, when thought is at rest.

I always feel caught in a lie. It starts with me introducing myself by name. I always feels like I’m introducing a fake persona. Most people have one. I have hundreds. Ironically, the one I’m not is the one that introduces myself by name. How does one live so eccentrically. Bare a thought for me. It takes considerable strength to wear a mask that itches.

So he wears it and wears it, it’s wearing him down, and all he can think of, is tearing it down.

I’m never myself when I’m with people. It’s almost as though myself couldn’t speak. When I speak, I speak as another. Myself has no voice. It only has thoughts.

To speak of things that shouldn’t be, spoken of I mean, of things that no one cares about, the never ending spleen. To ask what you don’t care about, to answer with a lie, and why a word exchanged it is, it’s never any wise.

I listened to a guy talking about his band. I asked about their next gig. I hated myself when I did. Their next gig is on Monday, for those who were interested.

They had recruited a new bass player. Yes. He told me that. I have no idea why. I had known this guy for five minutes. But he figured this was a great piece of information, which would enrich my day. I briefly reflected on how I could return the favor. I could tell him about my favorite paper format. I reckon it’s A5. A4 is overrated. It’s not handy at all. A5 should have been the world standard. It’s a lot cuter, too. Then I figured, I could tell him in what order I do my grocery shopping. Because, that’s the interesting thing, I always start with the beverages, as I tend to forget them.

Reaching the heights. Tired in spirits. In other news. The eternal spiral.

What’s the difference between diving and plunging? It’s the level of control. In that sense, I should say I’m diving.

One who dives is in control. He enters the depths, yet in controlled fashion. One who plunges has lost control. He falls into depth. But where does control end. Is it a gradient, or a border? Does one lose control suddenly or gradually? I reckon, it must be sudden. It feels gradual, but as long as you control it, you’re diving. Until you’re no longer in control, and the dive becomes a plunge. This is of abrupt nature, so it’s not a transition, but a transgression. There is a frontier between the controlled dive and an uncontrolled plunge. Yet this frontier is not visible. Often one only recognizes it after the fact. One gradually loses grip, while staying in control.

Until, suddenly, control is lost and one begins to plunge. Once control is lost, it’s hard to regain it. This is why one must be careful that the dive doesn’t become a plunge. Then again, when you increase the speed, when you dive faster and faster, you develop momentum, and this momentum increases the risk of a sudden loss of control. This is called playing with fire. One can dive into the depth of Earth, but similarly into the depth of mind. It’s there that one discovers a world hidden from reason and abstraction. It’s called immersion. One immerses in the depth of one’s imagination. But this is still the controlled process of diving. There is a level of control which is maintained. At the same time, it only becomes exciting when control is given up. The exciting part about imagining is not the diving but the plunging. One should fall head first into one’s fantasies. The reasonists are arsonists, they burn our imagination down. We must fight them by imagining harder. We shall turn the dive into a plunge. For only when we plunge into our images will the images become real. They become vivid and colorful, a second reality within. The true capacity of an image can only be released in the plunge. To plunge into one’s imagination, is the ticket to one’s madness. Yet it shouldn’t be rejected based on that. A little madness is the ingredient that makes or breaks the artistic dish. One needs madness to be a genius, otherwise one remains a mere talent. Madness is just another word for genius after all. The mad are mostly the geniuses that don’t create. But the creating madmen are the ones we aspire to. Madness begins when the frontier is crossed. The true power of the images is hidden to those who remain in control. Only when the images are allowed to take over, will they realize their full potential. But this requires a level of submission, and sacrifice, that cannot be reached as long as control is maintained. To plunge into the depths of mind is the privilege of madness. Control is a burden, it limits our potential. We must not worry about the consequences, for we are explorers and we explore our minds. There is so much to discover in our own thoughts, but we must be willing to let go of ourselves. Images are never stronger than during these moments of self-sacrifice. Only those who let go of the existing, will discover something new in the process. Divers are in control, and control limits us to what we already know.

To find something new, we must sacrifice the old. We must cease to be what we are, to become something better. To give up control, to live up to ourselves. To give up, to live up, in layman’s terms. Who is layman and what are his terms? We must plunge, not dive, for diving is controlling, and the depths should not be controlled. The images will never be stronger than when they’re in control. One must let the images think, instead of thinking the images.

Soil is light, air is heavy, silence is prayer, prayer my friend. I see a figure, coming toward me, wondering, should I hail them. The figures are so vivid, I can’t bare the fact.

Spiders. They are well worded in English. Equally well in German, where they call it schpinne, with the hard German „sh“ sound: shhhhhh-pinne! In Spanish it’s called, araña, and that’s great, too — arrrrranja! As always the bloody French step out of line. They call it araignée, pronounced arenyé, which annoys me. The word is way too beautiful. It sounds like the chef d’oeuvre of a symphonist, or the name of a young duchess born into a royal family. This is unacceptable, and I demand that the French find a better word for it.

The strange feeling of hearing yourself talk. Especially when you say things that you hear for the first time. You go: hmm, so that’s what we say in public? I hear people talking about inner monologue, but what about inner dialogue. At what point does it become clinically relevant? I am probably past that point, so I consider myself a pioneer. I’m pioneering for the world of science. The item of science is myself, or I am creating life. Like Dr. Frankenstein. I read this book recently. Mary Shelley was 19 when she wrote it. I’m quite impressed by that, her style is beautiful. My style is deranged. Two schools of thought, I guess. One can be talented and one can be insane. In either case, it’s important to nurture one’s natural disposition. If one is insane one needs to become more insane. It’s an artistic approach, I’m not sure if it leads anywhere. Fission is underrated. It’s fun to have friends in your house, and your head is just an extension of your house. So it’s like having friends around.

I heard myself talking again, and I learned quite a lot. For example that I’m into Persian food. I did not know that. So that’s something I learned about myself today.

So yes, it was a good read. But I didn’t know that Frankenstein created a second monster, after the first monster had killed Dr. Frankenstein’s brother. Can we talk about this for a moment? This seems like an awful decision. If you create a monster that kills, should you create a second monster of the same kind? Now morals aside, I’m just not convinced of Dr. Frankensteins sanity. Maybe he was one of those pseudodoctors who do their PhD in marketing and then call themselves doctor on their doorbell. Must have been one of those. Cause I want to believe that a doctor that creates a killing monster — would not create a second one. Be that as it may, he did, and since the story doesn’t continue from there, I fully expect that Dr. Frankenstein created two serial killers. Then again, the manhunt must have been rather easy. On the photo fit, they could have just said: „We’re looking for two non-humans, it’s pretty simple actually, if you see two aliens with square heads, it’s those two“. Which leads me back to my question: why would he create a second monster? It’s clearly a bad call. Another question I have is: do the monsters procreate? Can they have a monster child? I can’t decide if I find it cute or terrifying if they could. I think I find it cute, though. Having a cute little square head monster around. I also wonder, they don’t have friends, do they? So I guess my question is: who’s coming to their gender reveal party? I said this jokingly, but this is the problem with me, I now feel genuinely sorry for the Frankenstein family. I am sad that they don’t have any friends. I wonder how they manage the day to day. I guess they would be like Bonny and Clyde, which is nice. Is it a love story, though? It’s pretty much an arranged marriage, isn’t it? The male monster wanted the female monster, but did anyone ask the female monster what she wanted? How does Dr. Frankenstein sleep at night? Knowing that he created two killing monsters — honestly, I think the emphasis should lie on the „two“ part. The first time was sort of an oopsie. It happened. But the second one? He really should have known better. I mean, seriously, the first one killed his baby brother. This seems like a serious lapse of judgement. I really want to double down on that (as did our dear Doctor), and say that creating one killing monster is bad enough, but creating two of them is inexcusable. In fact, he should probably be arrested for this. This guy belongs in a prison. It’s what he did, and even more, what he’s apparently capable of. He did it not once, but twice, and chances are, he will do it again. He will create more killing monsters. This is not something society should allow. I know, freedom and everything, but we need to draw the line somewhere. Here is a guy who is apparently able as well as willing to create killing monsters. Do I really need to explain why a guy like this isn’t fit for society?

All roads lead back to myself. If only they didn’t. I want to take another road.

In tiredness one makes the worst decisions. But what if one is always tired. It’s hard to look at yourself objectively, when subjectively you are so tired. My mind always has a funny idea. Then it tells me its ideas and I laugh. Like a lunatic.

A picture well imagined is a picture well painted. You see so much with that inner eye. I love to see things that don’t exist. To see what isn’t real, is to see truly. It’s a privilege to be delusional. An animal couldn’t be delusional.

I love the pictures that are not real. They are my preferred thing to look at. It’s beautiful to walk through one’s imagination and see imaginary things. It’s impossible to paint a pretty picture if you can’t imagine it.

The pictures you paint were images first. When creation is not preceded by imagination, it lacks the imaginative element. It doesn’t create images. It merely describes them. But true art creates images, not descriptions. As the words are uttered, the image emerges. If there is no image attached to the words, you can always tell. The words remain words. If the words were born out of images, then the images shall be reborn whenever the words are conceived.

When the form requires a medium, but the medium has no form. When formlessness and shapelessness are not expressible in proper form.

My words are spoken without conviction. One day I believe in one thing, the next day in the opposite. I cannot help but feel discouraged. All has slipped away from me. The convictions that I had collapsed into doubt. Doubt is my conviction now. But I don’t even doubt. To doubt one has to care, and care I do not. I let it happen, more than anything. World is passing me by, like the clouds on a plane. I heard this expression the other day: „Explain it to me in plane English“. And ever since I’ve been wondering. What is plane English? It feels like the English spoken on planes is pretty similar to the one we speak down on Earth. I could not wrap my head around this expression. Perhaps it means we should speak politely as if on a plane. Or it means one should speak English as if one spoke to a non-English passenger on a plane, i.e. we should use simpler language. Yes, that feels like it could be correct. So I guess to say something in „plane English“ means to explain something in simple words.

I was at the airport the other day, and once again, I realized what I don’t like about airports. It’s the sheer number of people. It presents me with sheer terror. Flying is the safest means to travel, but perhaps it should be less safe? Then again, I wouldn’t want to be on one of those unsafe planes.

Nature is my only bliss. It’s myself that I can’t seem to appreciate anymore. The feeling of letting go what has let go of me. The feeling of I. No complaints. Behind the horizon there is lurking an eternally long shadow. As I look down on the ground, I see my shadow disappearing in space.

To live in nature is so beautiful that one wonders why people live in cities.

My mind’s not racing anymore. It’s sort of creeping around. I find myself looking for a genuine thought.

Thought is the depth of speech. If there is no thought in speech, the words sound hollow. One hears it when there is no thought in speech, which is usually the case. That speech includes thought is the most seldom thing in the world.

Of all the vain things you can look for in life, truth seems to the silliest. I don’t think I benefited from finding it. I would have happily stayed in the realm of false. I loved nothing better than these false truths of mine. I looked at them, in awe, for they were beautiful, and so true to me.

I believed wholeheartedly in my dreams. Who cares that they weren’t true. They were true to me. I’d rather love the girl that I imagine than to despair over the girl that exists.

I want to believe again. Not in the real, but in the unreal. The unreal is so much prettier than the real.

To see the ideal, when looking at the real, to tip toe that balance, to never waver.

To believe in something, without wondering if it’s true, is beautiful. To believe, wholeheartedly, in the untruth.

One doesn’t impose on the ideal, for it’s not real, and it’s not supposed to be. As soon as one realizes the ideal, it becomes real, and therefore uninteresting. Perfect we are only, if and when we don’t speak. Her as much as I. We are ideal. The only love I believe in is the silent one. The one that never speaks, the one that stays ideal. To enter the real is to burn through the love. The real is never any good.

The ideal is something one can believe in. Believing is not knowing, and the ideal is not reality, which makes it a double negative. To unknow the untrue, is to know the truth from inside. There is nothing like believing in a beautiful untruth.

The ideal can never become real. One has to be clear about that. One leaves the ideal where it is. In idle imagination.

To love the one that doesn’t exist. To not love the one that does. And to never mix the two. Yet to look at the real and see the ideal. This is beautiful. I never want to leave this inner world of mine. If only I could unknow the things I have learned. I want to blur my vision, I want to enter the fog. When the mind is suspended, the soul comes alive.

I am not real either. The difference between her and me is that she is the real who portrays the ideal, whereas I am the ideal that portrays the real. The real me exists as little as the ideal her. I only love her ideal which doesn’t exist. She sees the real me which doesn’t exist either. Which means that we don’t see each other. She sees a shadow, and so do I.

I live in thought, and there I perceive. But when she looks at me, she is everything. Yet of course she is not, and I know that. I want to love her for the ideal that she is not. To capture that moment, when she glances at me.

I was in thought today. When I looked up. By mere chance, she was looking at me. A girl so beautiful, I cannot describe. Her glance was everything. She was not real. None of it was. I made my point. She looked at me, as if she saw in me, another one like her. But she didn’t, as none of this was real. I didn’t care. I kept her glance, and I keep it still.

She was ideal. At that moment, she was perfect.

What beauty is to the world, the ideal is to the mind. The ideal is the height of mind. To reach up, this is what it comes down to. To become a painter in the mind.

Trembling is good. When the trembling stops, so does the music. Pure thought is either the best or the worst thing in the world. It depends on what you think about.

Trembling is a motion, that once started doesn’t slow down. But to tremble is beautiful. There is nothing like a trembling soul. When the soul is steady and calm, it’s not lovable. The soul needs to tremble, for trembling means she’s breathing, and a soul not breathing is a soul not alive.

To be steady is to be ugly. Only the boring have a steady character. It’s the trembling souls that sing the hymns of tomorrow. No, they hum them. They hum the hymns of tomorrow. A trembling soul thinks in melodies.

Tremble, hence, and tremble well. The soul is made for greater things.

Misery is a blessing, never forget. Only the miserable reach the heights of man. One never feels more alive than in times of trembling. The real tragedy is to feel no more. The Stoics are delusional. To tremble is the salvation of man.

I saw a girl trembling, she was trembling throughout. I have an eye for these things. Ever since her. A trembling soul, affects me instantly. I am at once trembling along. For if I tremble a little more, she might tremble a little less. Trembling dissipates when others tremble along.

I did not know who she was, or why she was trembling. It was beautiful, yet anonymous, as I know the difference between reality and ideality. That makes me a dreamer, not a romantic, for a romantic is one that constantly mistakes the two. I know where reality ends. One can live well, when one is willing not to realize one’s ideals. To protect the ideal from the real. Only a powerful mind can play this game, but once started, it becomes addictive. One is limitless in the spirit.

Why she was trembling, I don’t know. By all likelihood, it was something mundane, and nothing to worry about. Yet it wasn’t the cause of her trembling, or even the circumstance, no — I was simply drawn to the fact.

My thoughts are written in delusion, albeit beautiful delusion. That’s what it’s all about. In illusion one says nonsense, but one feels good about it. I’m always amused by the sheer nonsense of it. When I speak real, I make sense, but how boring it is. When I speak ideal, it’s all nonsense, but it’s beautiful. If only one could make sense and speak beautiful at the same time. But this is impossible, because to speak beautiful is to be nonsensical. To be sensical would be to speak normally, not beautifully. Yet to believe in my ideal thoughts would be madness, and the only thing madder would be to believe in my real thoughts. One should not believe me altogether. Instead one should dismiss everything I say and call me a fool. It’s what my neighbor does anyway.