We need to be less toxic because we infect the other things in our grasp.


Somehow, I must get used to the idea that I am not all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-inspiring. I have my frailties and weakness, and I have to learn not to impose my insecurities on the ones I love. A mantra to repeat; I am not strong, and I will fail.

For those who are racked by melancholia, writing about it would have meaning only if writing sprang out of that melancholia. I am trying to address an abyss of sorrow, a noncommunicable grief that at times, and often on a long term basis, lays claim upon us to the extent of having us lose all interest in words, actions, and even life itself. Such despair is not a revulsion that would imply my being capable of desire and creativity, negative indeed but present. Within depression, if my existence is on the verge of collapsing, its lack of meaning is not tragic – it appears obvious to me, glaring and inescapable. 

Where does this black sun come from? Out of what eerie galaxy do its invisible, lethargic rays reach me, pinning me down to the ground, to my bed, compelling me to silence, to renunciation? 

The wound I have suffered, some setback or other in my love life or profession, some sorrow or bereavement affecting my relationship with close relatives – such are often the easily spotted triggers of my despair. A betrayal, a fatal illness, some accident or handicap that abruptly wrests me away from what seemed to me the normal category of normal people or else falls on a loved one with the same radical effect, or yet… What more could I mention? An infinite number of misfortunes weigh us down every day… All this suddenly gives me another life. A life that is unlivable, heavy with daily sorrows, tears held back or shed, a total despair, scorching at times, then wan and empty. In short, a devitalized existence that, although occasionally fired by the effort I make to prolong it, is ready at any moment for a plunge into death.An avenging death or a liberating death, it is henceforth the inner threshold of my despondency, the impossible meaning of a life whose burden constantly seems unbearable, save for those moments when I pull myself together to face the disaster. I live a living death, my flesh is wounded, bleeding, cadaverized, my rhythm slowed down or uninterrupted, time has been erased or bloated, absorbed into sorrow… Absent from other people’s meaning, alien, accidental with respect to native happiness, I owe a supreme, metaphysical lucidity to my depression. On the frontiers of life and death, occasionally I have the arrogant feeling of being witness to the meaninglessness of Being, of revealing the absurdity of bonds and beings.

-Kristeva, Black Sun

15 Guaranteed Things That Will Happen To You In Your 20s

been there, done that

Thought Catalog

1. Your social circle will narrow. In college, you’ll have lots of acquaintances and party friends but that will dissipate over time. Eventually, you’ll find yourself unable to spark up new friendships simply because you don’t have the time or desire. Now you’ll only make a new friend and let them into your life if you’re absolutely obsessed with them.

2. You’ll seriously consider going to grad school. You’ll call your mom up in a panic one day and explain that you’ve always enjoyed something like psychology and, well, maybe it’s time to start entertaining the idea of, um, being a therapist. Mom? Stop sighing!

3. You will hate your job at some point, even if it’s better than 99% of your other friends’ jobs. You will be overworked and underpaid presumably until you’re 40. Then, you’ll suddenly be overpaid and not do much of anything. Right? That’s how it…

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Too many years, my heart

has waged war against my body.

Whatever is in me isn’t enough

and the machinery my body

has built for itself

is lacking too. My heart

has turned my hands

against their skin,

my nails

digging trenches of red earth

out of this ground,

unearthing landmines

resting dormant

under the surface.

All I have to show for this warfare

is defeat and no victory; is pain

and ruin and

devastation. Still this is my own battle


and I cannot 

keep any 


 – Jollin Tan

I don’t have to leave anymore
What I have is right here
Spend my nights and days before
Searching the world for what’s right here

Underneath and unexplored
Islands and cities I have looked
Here I saw
Something I couldn’t over look

I am yours now
So now I don’t ever have to leave
I’ve been found out
So now I’ll never explore

See what I’ve done
That bridge is on fire
Going back to where I’ve been
I’m froze by desire
No need to leave

Where would I be
If this were to go under
That’s a risk I’d take
I’m froze by desire
As if a choice I’d make

I am yours now
So now I don’t ever have to leave
I’ve been found out
So now I’ll never explore

So now I’ll never explore

When you’re an addict, you can go without feeling anything except drunk or stoned or hungry. Still, when you compare this to other feelings, to sadness, anger, fear, worry, despair, and depression, well, an addiction no longer looks so bad. It looks like a very viable option.

-Chris Palahnuik, Choke

Stendhal syndrome, Angel says, is a medical term. It’s when a painting, or any form of art, is so beautiful it overwhelms the viewer. It’s a form of shock. When Standhal toured the Church of Santa Croce in Florence in 1817, he reported almost fainting from joy. People feel rapid heart palpitations. They get dizzy. Looking at great art makes you forget your own name, forget even where you’re at. It can bring on depression and physical exhaustion. Amnesia. Panic. Heart attack. Collapse.

-Chuck Palahnuik, Diary


Closing the door behind her, she left a trail of clothes in her wake as she made her way to the bed. The first was the rough-hewn linen scarf, a dangly little thing, that made a sensuous puddle on the floor. She stumbled a little as it coiled around her dainty toes, nearly missing a step. Willfully, she shook it off, and proceeded to unwind her stockings.

Purple. Puuurrrr-ple. The harsh P, proceeded by and preceding itself. In between the spitting tongue is the sensuous, throaty u. Purrp. Purp. Then, like a low moan of despair, it rounds off the enactment of desire with a guttural groan. Pronounced deliberately, each letter is removed, given a licking down, before it proudly takes its place back in the wholeness of its sense, its sensuality.


Grasping the stocking by its rim, her sweaty hands caress her thigh as the stocking reveals pale, white flesh, unwaxed shrubs of hair dotting the well-toned limb. She doesn’t rush; she sees no need to. Inch by inch, a calf muscle, undefined but languorous, inexorably comes into being, peeking into the dim incandescent light. She uxoriously gives it a caress, slowly rubbing away the cares of day, of life, of living.


When I say purple, it isn’t the colour that comes to mind. Rather, it is the way one has to curl one’s tongue to give the word a being separate entirely from its morphemes. Instead of a hesitating ‘purple’, one has to give the word its climax within the throat, where the larynx rubs itself, clit-like, in rolling the groan into its essence. Roll, curl, surround, echo, climax, vanish.


She stretches her legs, waving them nonchalantly. The room is a dump. She proceeds to remove her blouse; it has no buttons. She shrugs it off easily, and it falls to the floor. Unclothed, statuesque, she has no qualms about her body. It isn’t pretty; but it isn’t ugly either. Her long forearms reach to her back, blindly searching for the hook that unclaspes, unsecuring that insecurity that comes with being concealed. She stares at her body in the mirror on her wardrobe, catching a glimpse of the gentle, unprepossessing contours that make up her bosom.


Purple. It isn’t a snappy colour, it doesn’t catch the attention. It has none of the flirtatiousness of orange, nor the ‘fuck-me’ holler of limey green. It doesn’t have the vulgarity of red, nor the pretentious chastity of pink. It is concealed and unconcealed, my ereignes and event, that unconcealment and revelation of the everyday, that which goes by unnoticed, but comes full-fleshed, unabashedly, baring its soul to my being.


Things that are lost deserve to be remembered.