You are the pattern in the weaving of my existence. You are the secret code that unlocks all that is mine. You are the manner in which I dance, flying from cloud to cloud…You are the answer to all my questions, always unexpected, which raises me from one world to another.You are my sailing boat on the ocean of infinite tranquility and bliss. My most beautiful ark. Your soul has no limits, and it is in my eyes that You are endless…
And thus when I am not asking You anything then, in fact, I am asking You; And when I do not see You – I do indeed see you. And when You are silent You are speaking inside of me; and when you are asleep you are awake inside of me.....
You'll never be able to escape from your heart. So, it's better to listen to what it has to say. That way you'll never have to fear an unanticipated blow...

Monday, 4 May 2015

Is melancholy substitutes for griefs?


When we cannot be delivered from ourselves, we delight in devouring ourselves. In vain we call upon the Lord of Shades, the bestower of a precise curse: we are invalids without disease, and reprobates without vices. Melancholy is the dream state of egoism: no longer any object outside oneself, no reason for hate or love, but that same fall into a languid mud, that same circling of the damned without a hell, those same reiterations of a zeal to perish.... 
Whereas sadness is content
with a circumstantial context, melancholy requires a debauch of space, an infinite landscape in order to spread out its sullen and vaporous grace, its shapeless evil, which, fearing to recover, dreads any limit to its dissolution and its undulation. It expands strangest flower of self-love among the
poisons from which it extracts its vital juices and the vigor of all its failures. Feeding on what corrupts it, melancholy hides, under its melodious name, Self-Commiseration and the Pride of Defeat.

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