Nietzsche
Diejenigen, die tanzten wurden von denen für verrückt gehalten, die die Musik nicht hören konnten. (Those who danced were thought crazy by those who could not hear the music.)
I just felt it was time to write an insightful post.
Life’s been good. I’ve remembered how to let go of things. I was building up this complex web of how I think the world works and protecting it like a little girl protects her sandcastle decorated with shells and seaweed. But then I realised something. All I could do was watch as the ocean wave washed it away. I suppose the ocean wave is life.
I have ups and downs a lot. Like, a lot. But until sometime around 5am last Sunday morning, the latest down had a proper hold on me. A joint and a conversation changed that. One of the coolest guys I know made me question how I was thinking. I was letting my own mind crawl so far inside itself that I couldn’t involve myself in what other people were talking about. I always had to relate it to my own complex beliefs. Then I’d find myself staring blankly at someone with no idea what they were really saying.
I also realised that you can’t push people further than they want to go. Everyones on their own journey. It’s not even spiritual journey. It’s just life. Everybody is trying to figure something out. But I think more people need to realise that their reason for existence needs to be questioned at least a little.
Look within and life, it seems, is very far from being “like this”. Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad impressions—trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or catastrophe in the accepted style, and perhaps not a single button sewn on as the Bond Street tailors would have it. Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us fromthe beginning of consciousness to the end. Is it not the task of the novelist to convey this varying, this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit, whatever aberration or complexity it may display, with as little mixture of the alien and external as possible? We are not pleading merely for courage and sincerity; we are suggesting that the proper stuff of fiction is a little other than custom would have us believe it.
-Virginia Woolf
Odd, this is exactly my nail polish and jewelery right now.
(via curacion)
