The (_____) Face

For whatever a face could feel.

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A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU

WALDEN

(via shiggetywhat)

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The isolated face

“Turn off the crazy way I feel…I’ve come home to stop yearning.”

There were these beautiful couple of hours in which I wandered around the house in my grubby clothes, drank coffee, and let my thoughts fall into the rhythm of James Taylor on vinyl. It was so wonderful, alone with all this space. It’s funny, I’ve written of and pondered and discussed the need to connect with others countless times, the human need to be understood and to understand, as fruitless as this quest often becomes. And yet, all I wanted to do was relish in my isolation. As much as I love my little brother, the moment he came home the coffee was colder and the music turned bland. People are so much that everything else is put on mute. Suddenly listening to the sounds of everything else turns into listening to the sounds of nothing. And why would I waste my time?

Funny though, by putting this on tumblr I’m only continuing the vicious quest for understanding. I want the beauty of my isolation to be validated. There is nothing I can do without others, not even be alone.

James has stopped singing and my mother’s speaking of loans. I can’t hold on to the feeling any longer.

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textsfromlastnight:

(815): it was great that she threw up because that made me the only one trying to hook up with her