A Lonely Writer Does

I’m a lonely writer/I live in a box of words/I took memories of you/And make it into my song...

Lyrics by Mian Tiara, Indonesian indie singer-songwriter.

The Fatality of Having Something (or too much)

There is fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one's fellow. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live, undisturbed, indifferent and without disquiet.

(taken from The Picture of Dorian Gray).

Spending Time Alone

Growing up, I repeatedly heard people addressing me as weird, an anti-social human being. I spent so much time alone reading books. Weird loser that is me in the eyes of so many people. It saddened because no matter how much you try convincing yourself that you don't care what people say about you, at some point you could not help not to care.

Curtis Sittenfield thank you very much...

"You confuse being weird and spending time alone. But anyone who's really interested in anything spends time alone."

(taken from Prep, Curtis Sittenfeld).

Life is a Story

I can't imagine a life without a story

(NP. by Banana Yoshimoto)

The mEmorY of the SenSeS

Any hint of flavor, just a hint, leads through a tunnel back
to a light: the memory of my favorite stew. I never had words for it
in the first, although when I am inebriated with memory,
emotions about the ghostly meal rattle around.

-JeFF WeinsTein 'Thyme and Word Enough'

Don't Judge tHE Book by its Cover in Oscar Wilde's version

It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible (taken from The Picture of Dorian Gray)

Stillness

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh or fleshless.
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is.

---TS. Eliot, "Burnt Norton"