from eileen by ottessa moshfegh
A cup of tea would restore my normality.
I don’t feel guilt at being unsociable, though I may sometimes regret it because my loneliness is painful. But when I move into the world, it feels like a moral fall — like seeking love in a whorehouse.
Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed To Flesh: Journals & Notebooks, 1964 - 1980
― Virginia Woolf
"If forever does exist, please let it be you...." - a.r.asher
the divine, only in dreams
“You’re not a monster,” I said. But I lied. What I really wanted to say was that a monster is not such a terrible thing to be. From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.”
— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
Oh to be the Broken Ace.
To be so good at everything that you’re never good enough.
To walk around with a regal air that nobody questions because your reputation always precedes you.
People avoid you because they don’t trust themselves to act around you.
Even more, they don’t trust your response.
The people around you harbour the worst kind of doubt, the deepest kind of fear, the most damaging kind of insecurity.
And that’s the thing.
You are good.
Annoyingly so.
Your all-consuming demons have made sure of it.