Patient 1317

Philosophy of existential nihilism

[existential-patient-1317]

Bonedog by Eva H.D.

Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything’s worse once you’re home.

You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful.

And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn.

You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth’s gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of…

Anyway . . .

You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time . . .

Well . . . Anyway . . . You’re back.

The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness.

You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.

[remanence-of-love]

[existential-patient-1317]

Cyberpunk: Edgerunners S01E04

[weltenwellen]

Adonis, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, Selected Poems

[memewhore]

[michaelmoonsbookshop]

postcard c1910

I shall pass through this world but once, any good thing therefore I can do, or any kindness I can show to any human being, let me do it now, let me not defer it or neglect it for I shall not pass this way again.

[existential-patient-1317]

Love (2015)

[an--existential--crisis-deactiv]

Old, grey-haired waitresses in cafes at night have given it up, and as I walk down sidewalks of light and look into windows of nursing homes I can see that it is no longer with them. I see people sitting on park benches and I can see by the way they sit and look that it is gone. I see people driving cars and I see by the way they drive their cars that they neither love nor are loved - nor do they consider sex. It is all forgotten like an old movie. I see people in department stores and supermarkets walking down aisles buying things and I can see by the way their clothing fits them and by the way they walk and by their faces and their eyes that they care for nothing and that nothing cares for them. I see a hundred people a day who have given up entirely. If I go to the racetrack or a sporting event I can see thousands that feel for nothing or no one and get no feeling back. Everywhere I see those who crave nothing but food, shelter, and clothing; they concentrate on that, dreamlessly I do not understand why these people do not vanish I do not understand why these people do not expire why the clouds do not murder them or why the dogs do not murder them or why the flowers and the children do not murder them, I do not understand. I suppose they are murdered yet I can’t adjust to the fact of them because they are so many. Each day, each night, there are more of them in the subways and in the buildings and in the parks they feel no terror at not loving or at not being loved so many many many of my fellow creatures

Charles Bukowski | Dreamlessly (via an--existential--crisis)

[existential-patient-1317]

Riot police trying to stop protestors from blocking the highway in Belgrade, Serbia, in response to the state’s will to give company Rio Tinto rights to build a lithium mine. 

Serbia is not for sale  ✊

27.11.2021.

📷   Vladan Pavlović

[flirty-milk]

To be beautiful & strange

[existential-patient-1317]

The Red-Haired Man

There was a red-haired man who had no eyes or ears.

Neither did he have any hair, so he was called red-haired theoretically. He couldn't speak, since he didn't have a mouth. Neither did he have a nose. He didn't even have any arms or legs. He had no stomach and he had no back and he had no spine and he had no innards whatsoever. He had nothing at all! Therefore there's no knowing whom we are even talking about. In fact it's better that we don't say any more about him. Daniil Ivanovich Kharms

[existential-patient-1317]

I'm a watermelon slammed into your driveway Crack me open so I feel the air inside me Like a tongue tongue   in my ear drum, dum dum music boyfriend I'm your yum yum call me and I'll come

Fuck the rest of 'em Fuck 'em all Fuck 'em all but us

Am I dreaming or did you just kiss me You don' t know it but you already miss me Like a tongue tongue in my eardrum dum dum music boyfriend I'm your yum yum call me and I'll come

Fuck the rest of 'em Fuck 'em all Fuck 'em all but us

[malisoun-deactivated20200727]

How do you fall back in love with life?

clean your room.  clean space, uncluttered space, space that doesn’t have miasma clinging to it can work wonders.  clean the dishes.  sweep.  take out the trash.  peel the clothes off the floor and wash them, and then actually fold/hang them.  take a long shower.  scrub behind your knees.  brush your teeth.  (this can be utterly exhausting, but try to get it done in a day, if you can.  the end result is worth it.)

pull out your notebook.  it doesn’t need to be a new notebook, but preferably one that you don’t usually write in, or that you haven’t touched in a while.  fuck moleskins.  the yellow legal pad will work fine.  sit in your room, or in the park, or in the library, and write a list.  count clouds.  describe all the colors that you see, and note patterns that arise.  sketch the cracks in the walls.  note the shape light makes when it enters a space.  talk about what the air tastes like, smells like.  what sounds are there?  even the white nose, break that down: air planes, fans, cicadas, anything.  remind yourself that you are sitting in the middle of a space brimming with detail.  remind yourself that you are not in nothingness and emptiness.  your world is fathomless.  it has potential.

drink cold water and try to eat something that isn’t processed.  it does not need to be fancy.  buy yourself an apple with the change between your couch cushions.  eat it outside.  if you’re someone who walks, walk somewhere afterwards, just to stretch your legs.  take your fucking meds.  remember that its a good thing that you are inside your body.  your body is a fantastic and endlessly intricate machine, and even though society has smacked a bunch of poisonous ideas on it, that doesn’t change its inherent worth and splendor.  take care of it.

read a novel.  underline your favorite lines, and write phrases that twist your heart inside your chest on the back of your hand with an ink pen.  read a novel like it’s poetry.  read poetry, something decadent but unpretentious.  watch a movie you haven’t seen before.  if there are free art galleries near you, walk through one.  take your time.  let yourself bask.  if there are patterns in what makes your soul ache, write those patterns down – marbles arches or soot crumbling bricks or dandelions or descriptions of dresses or whatever it is, write them down.

your chosen family is important.  remember, they picked you as much as you picked them.  the love has no obligation.  it is given freely and it is given from a place of compassion.  you are not a burden.  if you need to breathe, take a minute by yourself and just exist, but remember to go back to your people.  when they need you, listen and be gracious.  always be gracious.  the universe sometimes remembers things like that.

listen to new music.  link jump on youtube or related artist jump on spotify or ask the chap beside you in the cafe what their favorite band is, and listen to that.  listen to something that you don’t usually listen to.  we tend to tie up a lot of memory with music.  we are falling in love again.  the soundtrack needs to be specific to that.  

allow yourself to indulge in romantics.  press flowers in old books.  play movies with subtitles and mouth the words.  dance in your room.  wear something that makes you feel good, even if you wouldn’t wear it in public.  write your chosen family letters, even if you hand deliver them.  write poetry, even awful poetry.  revel in its awfulness.  eat dark chocolate and when your chosen family want to go out, try to go out with them sometimes, even if its just to the market.  

[existential-patient-1317]

Last week tonight with John Oliver s08e18

[existential-patient-1317]

[stlowens]

Anne Sexton, from “Yellow.”

[existential-patient-1317]

Gorim

Zabole me za sećanja  koja mogu biti

Gorim nije mi do reči Shvati, nema me! Sam u svojoj glavi vreba me strah vrtoglavi Shvati, nema te! Svejedno je umorni pogledi kilave pesnice tupe repeticije trebaš mi – ne trebaš mi trebaš mi – ma ne trebaš mi trebam ti – ne trebam ti trebam ti – ma ne trebam ti Nisam neko ko će reći zbogom

— Vladan Pavlović