How I feel about the inescapable

In every way that counted I was dead. Inside somewhere maybe I was screaming and weeping and howling like an animal, but that was another person deep inside, another person who had no access to the lips and face and mouth and head, so on the surface I just shrugged and smiled and kept moving. If I could have physically passed away, just let it all go, like that, without doing anything, stepped out of life as easily as walking through a door, I would have done. But I was going to sleep at night and waking in the morning, disappointed to be there and resigned to existence.

6 thoughts on “How I feel about the inescapable

  1. “Don’t you think I understand? The hopeless dream of being. Not seeming, but being. In every waking moment aware, alert. The tug of war – what you are with others and who you really are. A feeling of vertigo and a constant hunger to be finally exposed. To be seen through, cut down… even obliterated. Every tone of voice a lie. Every gesture false. Every smile a grimace. Commit suicide? That’s unthinkable. You don’t do things like that. But you can refuse to move and be silent. Then, at least, you’re not lying. You can shut yourself in, shut out the world. Then you don’t have to play any roles, show any faces, make false gestures. You’d think so but reality is diabolical. Your hiding-place isn’t watertight. Life trickles in everywhere. You’re forced to react. nobody asks if it’s real or not, if you’re honest or a liar. That’s only important at the theater, perhaps not even there. Elisabet, I understand why you’re silent, why you don’t move. Your lifelessness has become a fantastic part. I understand and I admire you. I think you should play this part until it’s done… until it’s no longer interesting. then you can leave it, as you leave all your roles.”

    -The Doctor (Persona, Ingmar Bergman)

    -I really wish it were that easy to shut everything out. 😀


  2. ‘Tard tard tard,’ Stice says.
    Group empathy is expressed via sighs, further slumping, small spastic gestures of exhaustion, the soft clanks of skulls’ backs against the lockers’ thin steel.
    ‘My bones are ringing the way sometimes people say their ears are ringing, I’m so tired.’
    ‘I’m waiting til the last possible second to even breathe. I’m not expanding the cage till driven by necessity of air.’
    ‘So tired it’s out of tired’s word-range,’ Pemulis says. ‘Tired just doesn’t do it.’
    ‘Exhausted, shot, depleted,’ says Jim Struck, grinding at his closed eye with the heel of his hand. ‘Cashed. Totalled.’
    ‘Look.’ Pemulis pointing at Struck. ‘It’s trying to think.’
    ‘A moving thing to see.’
    ‘Beat. Worn the heck out.’
    ‘Worn the fuck-all out is more like.’
    ‘Wrung dry. Whacked. Tuckered out. More dead than alive.’
    ‘None even come close, the words.’



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