“Still, anxiety in itself is not beautiful; it is so only when one sees at the same time the energy that overcomes it.” – Soren Kierkegaard
This intense overwhelming fills my lungs. Once completed by the breath of another, I willingly choose and act out a collection of colors. Blues, grays, reds. I depend my solitude on the contents of a bottle, which, staring back at me, lingers on my breath and fills the room like smoke.
The inside of my little red book of incomplete sentences, which has now graduated to. Wait. Pay no mind to that. Anyways, it reads..
“Nox et hiems longaeque viae, saevique dolores
Mollibus his castris, et labor onmis inest.”(Night, storm, long journeys, cruel pains
All kinds of pains are in this dainty camp.)
Because who wants to write when they’re overcome with joy amongst the company of friends?
Currently Re-reading: The Seducer’s Diary
Currently Listening To: A.A. Bondy – Lover’s Waltz
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