Dys-

This is not for you.

INTP that is sometimes INFP.

Ambitious, but some people call this "dreaming."
8 months ago
87 notes
I don’t know if this is true to you but for me
sometimes it gets so bad
that anything else
say like
looking at a bird on an overhead
power line
seems as great as a Beethoven symphony.
then you forget it and you’re back
again.

—A Moment by Charles Bukowski (via imaginateive)

(Source: vjoriqor)

8 months ago
11 notes
Take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have left is the sickness that started him writing in the first place.

— Charles Bukowski (via zaahirvault)

(Source: )

8 months ago
4 notes
I am what have kept from the college applications, moments of emotional passion and pleasure untainted by the collegiate incentive and unconquered by the indifferent meritocracy. Nostalgia for the afternoons when my grandfather and I fed the ducks on the pond fresh bread is confronted with the absurdity of my existence in a meaningless universe spinning on false Sisyphean hopes. I have carved myself in the image of this confrontation of nostalgia and the absurd, not in the mold decreed by the meritocratic gods. And yet, as I reveal an honest rendition of my character to the college application, my precious humanity seems to be hypocritically pretentious in a deceitful climb to the top of the collegiate ladder. Still, as I walk down these heights once more for another struggle, one must imagine me happy.

—Truman (via bytruman)

(via bytruman)

8 months ago
12 notes
She was breathing deeply, she forgot the cold, the weight of beings, the insane or static life, the long anguish of living or dying. After so many years running from fear, fleeing crazily, uselessly, she was finally coming to a halt. At the same time she seemed to be recovering her roots, and the sap rose anew in her body, which was no longer trembling. Pressing her whole belly against the parapet, leaning toward the wheeling sky, she was only waiting for her pounding heart to settle down, and for the silence to form in her. The last constellations of stars fell in bunches a little lower on the horizon of the desert, and stood motionless. Then, with an unbearable sweetness, the waters of the night began to fill her, submerging the cold, rising gradually to the center of her being, and overflowing wave upon wave to her moaning mouth. A moment later, the whole sky stretched out above her as she lay with her back against the cold earth.

—Albert Camus (via -noona)

(Source: )

8 months ago
1 note

Basically, life is a road of shit with people who are consumed by self concern, and the question has always been and will always be, “What is this all for?”

8 months ago
3,395 notes
You discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom, absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an illness- monotony, boredom, and death. Millions live like this, or die like this, without knowing. And then some shock treatment takes place- a person, a book, a song, and then it awakens them and saves them from death.

—Anaïs Nin (via seethes)

(Source: zealotry, via emptylotus)

8 months ago
3 notes

You know, I’ve realized what’s wrong.

I’m alone.
There is nothing. There’s no person to connect with, no one to listen to me, no one that isn’t a two-faced-fuck. I can’t tell my parents about my dreams, I genuinely don’t have real friends, I don’t know any of the 50 billion people at my college.

It’s really no wonder that I feel the way I do; that my thoughts are so hell-ridden.

I spent all of today laying in bed with a migraine and nausea; treating myself to a store of pills and sleep. And of course, only to wake up to a dark, cold, empty room and a stack of homework that I don’t want to do.

I don’t really know what I want. I don’t know what can change this.

8 months ago
1,589 notes
because this is what you do. get up.
blame the liquor for the heaviness. call in late
to work. go to the couch because the bed
is too empty. watch people scream about love
on Jerry Springer. count the ways
it could be worse. it could be last week
when the missing got so big
you wrote him a letter
and sent it. it could be yesterday, no work
to go to, whole day looming.
it could be last month
or the month before, when you still
thought maybe. still carried plans
around with you like talismans.
you could have kissed him last night.
could have gone home with him, given in,
cried after, softly, face to the wall, his heavy arm
around you, hand on your stomach, rubbing.
shower. remember your body. water
hotter than you can stand. sit
on the shower floor. the word
devastated ringing the tub. buildings
collapsed into themselves. ribs
caving toward the spine. recite
the strongest poem you know. a spell
against the lonely that gets you
in crowds and on three hours’ sleep.
wonder where the gods are now.
get up. because death is not
an alternative. because this is what you do.
air like soup, move. door, hallway, room.
pants, socks, shoes. sweater. coat. cold.
wish you were a bird. remember you
are not you, now. you are you
a year from now. how does that
woman walk? she is not sick or sad.
doesn’t even remember today.
has been to Europe. what song
is she humming? now. right now.
that’s it.

—“Survival Poem #17,” Marty McConnell (via vlorin)

(Source: commovente, via douce--amere)

8 months ago
1 note

This quest for success is tiring; sickening. This idea of becoming someone, doing something. Sitting in cold lecture halls, reading till early morning, failing quizzes, and all around having to function at a higher level 24/7 is incredibly sickening. 

It shouldn’t be. I can’t bear entering adulthood. The “real” world. With all these intellects, and psuedo-intellects, and flat out shit heads around me. 

I don’t know how to do this.  

And I don’t know what it is about it all, but something is uncanny. Something about the idea, the distance between people, the weather, the combination of details that I don’t overlook but probably should. The strange voices, my sleep deprivation, and the expectation that my parents hold of me.

I need to fast forward.  I don’t know what to do with all of this that has been thrust into my arms. I am wholly immersed in slow despair.