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#poetry – @riverbambi on Tumblr

Restless words

@riverbambi / riverbambi.tumblr.com

“Her mind is an unquiet one, words and thoughts and impulses constantly crashing into each other.”  ― David Levithan
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I’m the kind of person who likes to be by himself. To put a finer point on it, I’m the type of person who doesn’t find it painful to be alone. I find spending an hour or two every day running alone, not speaking to anyone, as well as four or five hours alone at my desk, to be neither difficult nor boring. I’ve had this tendency ever since I was young, when, given a choice, I much preferred reading books on my own or concentrating on listening to music over being with someone else. I could always think of things to do by myself
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The book I didn't read last night

It left me uneasy on my bed, the many times I said to myself I'd start it, it's like the many times I promised myself to wake up early in the mornings and start jogging but never did. What is that keeps me away from my own interests? why does it happen? I feel I can find refuge in my philosophy, books, and art but is it refuge what my mind wants? does it want to escape or just want to stay focused on this reality that is overwhelmingly exhausting. I have to admit I often am afraid of getting lost in "my world" that I lose track of everything I need to do that then I go through the days, unfulfilled, not at my highest potential even though I know I am capable of much more. Is it depression? spring is here again and with it, its smell and feeling but why don't I find solace in this?

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What happens in the paradoxical case is merely that the place of the external frustration is taken by an internal one. The sufferer does not permit himself happiness: the internal frustration commands him to cling to the external one. But why? Because – so runs the answer in a number of cases – one cannot expect Fate to grant one anything so good. In fact, another instance of “too good to be true”, the expression of a pessimism of which a large portion seems to find a home in many of us. In another set of cases, just as in those who are wrecked by success, we find a sense of guilt or inferiority, which can be translated: “I’m not worthy of such happiness, I don’t deserve it.” But these two motives are essentially the same, for one is only a projection of the other. For, as has long been known, the Fate which we expect to treat us so badly is a materialisation of our conscience, of the severe super-ego within us, itself a residue of the punitive agency of our childhood.

Sigmund Freud, letter to Romain Rolland "A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis"

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And so I ask myself: 'Where are your dreams?' And I shake my head and mutter: 'How the years go by!' And I ask myself again: 'What have you done with those years? Where have you buried your best moments? Have you really lived? Look,' I say to myself, 'how cold it is becoming all over the world!' And more years will pass and behind them will creep grim isolation. Tottering senility will come hobbling, leaning on a crutch, and behind these will come unrelieved boredom and despair. The world of fancies will fade, dreams will wilt and die and fall like autumn leaves from the trees...

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights

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A moral character is attached to autumnal scenes; the leaves falling like our years, the flowers fading like our hours, the clouds fleeting like our illusions, the light diminishing like our intelligence, the sun growing colder like our affections, the rivers becoming frozen like our lives-all bear secret relations to our destinies

François-René de Chateaubriand (Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe)

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All I know is that I shall be alone again. There is nothing more terrible than to be alone among human beings

Stefan Zweig, Letter from an Unknown Woman: The Fowler Snared

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“The poet is never inspired, because he is the master of that which appears to others as inspiration. He does not wait for inspiration to fall out of the heavens like roasted ortolans. He knows how to hunt...He is never inspired because he is unceasingly inspired, because the powers of poetry are always at his disposition, subjected to his will, submissive to his own activity...”

Raymond Queneau

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