“If a man is offered a fact which goes against his instincts, he will scrutinize it closely, and unless the evidence is overwhelming, he will refuse to believe it. If, on the other hand, he is offered something which affords a reason for acting in accordance to his instincts, he will accept it even on the slightest evidence. The origin of myths is explained in this way.”—Bertrand Russell.
Recently I have been flipping through my massive collection of albums, a myriad of pieces both heavily beloved and barely played. For the latter group, it’s not necessarily their fault: the music industry is so obsessed with getting more and more fresh material to listen to, it’s a wonder how any record is listened to more than once nowadays. The result of this obsession is a graveyard of under-appreciated masterpieces. Do your ears a favor and forget the Pitchfork reviews tonight. Go dig up some graves.
“I breathe in and you breathe out, and I’ve been wishing you well since the day you were born. Hoping that you were kissing all the wrong mouths and moving in all of the proper directions to get to me, every slight of your hand has moved you closer to me. Every moment you lost someone you loved, every girl you’ve broken and who has broken you, every lost tooth and skinned knee add long night, every haircut and chest cold, every stranger you spoke to and every stranger that you never got a chance to speak to, every broken bone and busted blood vessell, and pair of shaking hands, every sleeping bag, old t-shirt, cliff, mountain and crack in the cement, every leap you took, every chance you missed, every bad morning, and every fight with your father, every letter you’ve received, every prescription you filled, and the pills you didn’t swallow. All of the places you’ve seen, the melted snow, the bloody noses, the people you’ve missed, the whispers you’ve uttered, the black eyes, the awkward silences, the airplane trails in the sky, the pollution, the paragraphs you spoke, the books you didn’t read, the dirty water, the handme downs, the times you’ve been caught, the games of rock paper scissors, the stray hairs, the upset stomachs, the exposed negatives, the shattered lenses, the long exposures, the stomach in your throat, the bad songs, the indigestion, the dogwood flowers, the burns, the blisters, the songs on repeat, the scars on your hands from every mistake you’ve ever made, have brought you here, to me, to this moment suspended in time, finally. Finale.”—Alexis Mire.
“Dr. Barney stared at me, his lips puckered. What was he so serious about? Who hasn’t thought about killing themselves, as a kid? How can you grow up in this world and not think about it? It’s an option taken by a lot of successful people: Ernest Hemingway, Socrates, Jesus.”—It’s Kind of a Funny Story - Ned Vizzini (via hazelweatherfield)
“Like falling asleep, you’ve been reborn into the moment between reality and REM, and you’re suspended there, in time, in between my patterned breathing and innadible mumbling. Trapped there, a thought, a voice borrowing into my brain stem as I bury myself into your whispers, and stories and secrets.”—Alexis Mire
“It is not because the truth is too difficult to see that we make mistakes… we make mistakes because the easiest and most comfortable course for us is to seek insight where it accords with our emotions - especially selfish ones.”— Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.