tomrum

In the end we are all caught in devices of our own making. I believe that. In the end we are all caught.

I know only one thing. When I sleep, I know no fear, no, trouble, no bliss. Blessing on him who invented sleep. The common coin that purchases all things, the balance that levels shepherd and king, fool and wise man. There is only one bad thing about sound sleep. They say it closely resembles death.

Food is good for the nerves and the spirit. Courage comes from the belly – all else is desperation.

The pain was the world. The mind could not find a place outside it. He could hear the pain, staticky, in his hand and wrist. He closed his eyes again, briefly. He could feel himself contained in the dark but also just beyond it, on the lighted outer surface, the other side, belonged to both, feeling both, being himself and seeing himself.

The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we’re all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror.

At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face.

Betrayal. We betray to be loyal. Betrayal is like imagining when the reality isn’t good enough... betrayal as hope and compensation. As the making of a better life. Betrayal as love. As a tribute to our unlived lives... betrayal as escape. As a constructive act. As a statement of ideals. Worship. As an adventure of the soul. Betrayal as travel. How can we discover new places if we never leave home? You were my Promised Land, Poppy. You gave my lies a reason.

And yet the slightest attempt to convert any meaningful idea (*of one’s own*—this is the main thing) into words leads inevitably to the thesis: for pure thought, all human languages are foreigners.