(𝐴𝑛 𝑒𝑐𝒉𝑜)

For a season, a reason, unpleasing, and ever so lesion. Rather write it down than act it out.

There is often too much to say and not enough time. Cliché. a complete fiasco. Truthfully... Why say anything at all?

My mental imagination is where I'd prefer spend each day. I would much rather be at ease with the knowledge that I can somewhat influence the depths of my thoughts.

Time therefore expires. This will happen. There it is. It will tick more quickly. Let it be.

Christian Wiman, from Once in the West; "Music Maybe"

[Text ID: one wants in the end just once to be friend / one's own loneliness, // to make of the ache of inwardness— // something, // music maybe,]

Angelina Jolie photographed by Victoria Brynner, 1990

Furthermore, it lingers like a razor at the tip of my tongue all the time. I start to feel dangerous as my skin starts to warm up.

Angry without being asked, sparked, and ignited. To disregard prudence for no reason. Every chuckle that finds me does me harm.

I may destroy my sense of realization, production, and functional consciousness and never get over its loss. And why should I? Because I want to taste the blood of a thousand years on the tip of my tongue. I want to develop a conscious phobia of my own sinister secrets. But I am unable. Thus, I won't.

“Jhst thinking...how nothing last.”

Sad and true. Yet, there's a small call of realism...and the ache of memories to always be saved. Until then...💋

—What’s crazy is this human heart of ours. Clumped up veins pumping blood and yet...we follow it? Seriously. Unreal. What's insane is that I thought—no...I believed that maybe, just MAYBE some things would be different or change. And yet...? Almost the same.

For granted, feeling depleted, wanting to live off the grid. For the memories are all great, my mind in a state of confusion and my heart? Pieces. No puzzle to be built.

- Mahmoud Darwish from 'Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut c. 1982 (tr. Ibrahim Muhawi)