It's been said that you haven't lived today unless you've done something for someone who can never repay you. 

But that's easier said than done.

 Because when your life's a mess, it's hard to be much help to anyone else.

 

It's been established that time is not a rigid construct 

 

People choose the paths that gain them the greatest rewards for the least amount of effort.

 

This is why classical thought concerning structure could say that the center is, paradoxically, within the structure and outside it.

The center is at the center of the totality, and yet, since the center does not belong to the totality (is not part of the totality), the totality has its center elsewhere.

The center is not the center.

 

Stars to live by.

Stars to steer by.

Stars to die by.

 

Back on shore everyone was pretty messed up, but the owner/captain was by far the worst off.

He ended up drunk for a week, though the only thing he ever said was "So?"

The boat's gone. "So?" Your mate's dead. "So?" Hey at least you're alive. "So?"

An awful word but it does harden you.

It hardened me.

 

I do not know anything about Art with a capital A.

What I do know about is my art.

Because it concerns me.

I do not speak for others.

So I do not speak for things which profess to speak for others.

My art, however, speaks for me.

It lights my way.

 

Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day--without relief or explanation.

 

Beautiful women are always drawn to men they think will keep them beautiful.

 

I want something else.

I’m not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it’s drenched in sunlight and it’s weightless and I know it’s not cheap.

It’s probably not even real.

 

Do not wake me from this slumber,

but be assured that just as I have wept much, I have also wandered many roads with my thoughts.

 

Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say.

Of course those who write short books have even less to say.

 

To read" actually comes from the Latin reri "to calculate, to think" which is not only the progenitor of "read" but of "reason" as well, both of which hail from the Greek arariskein "to fit."

Aside from giving us "reason," arariskein also gives us an unlikely sibling, Latin arma meaning "weapons."

It seems that "to fit" the world or to make sense of it requires either reason or arms.

 The greatest of love letters are always coded for the one and not the many.

 

The ruminations are mine, let the world be yours.

 

Here then at long last is my darkness.

No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.

 

What can I say, I'm a sucker for abandoned stuff, misplaced stuff, forgotten stuff, any old stuff which despite the light of progress and all that, still vanishes every day like shadows at noon, goings unheralded, passings unmourned, well, you get the drift.

As a counselor once told me -a counselor for Disaffected Yought, I might add: "You like that crap because it reminds you of you."

Couldn't of said it better or put it more bluntly.

Don't even disagree with it either.

 The classic experiment on pain tolerance is to submerse your hand in freezing cold water and see how long you can take it. 

You can try to distract yourself by counting slowly or focussing on your breath, but no matter how high you count, or how deeply you breathe, that water is still undeniably cold. 

When you're in pain, you can grin and bear it all you want. You can try to pretend it's not there.

 But there's no glory in suffering. There's no reward. 

It doesn't make you wiser or stronger. It doesn't make you immune.

 Sometimes it makes the pain even worse.

You all believe what you want to believe, 

you will anyway... 

but it does kind of show you what excites people? 

Fear, pity, horror

—all those good things that count.

 It's like being on the edge of an orgasm,... that mystery just before you cum. 

When? 

If?

 Should I? 

Will you die for me, eat me, this way, the end...

 

On their death bed, nobody wishes they'd worked more. 

That's the trite little phrase people trot out when they want to play hookey, or spend too much money on vacation, or shame working parents for missing their kids' soccer game for a board meeting. 

On your death bed, no one wishes they'd worked more. 

Tell that to the people who love their work. 

It's not about whether you spend your life in a boardroom, your bedroom, or a beach with a mai tai in Maui, when you look back on your life, the only thing that matters is: Did you spend it doing what you love, with the people you love?

 Were you happy? Did you make the most of this beautiful, terrifying, messed up life? 

Did you let go of all the things that held you back? 

So you can hold on to what matters most.