The depressed mind is a stage full of actors who feel guilty for having an audience.
The boredom I feel when speaking to the ambitious owes to the fact that they are more interested in comparing than connecting. Even so, I am grateful to them for inspiring in me the ambition to remain ambitionless.
I fear that I may someday choke on my own restraint.
Today I observe myself with the distant curiosity that I do the leaves dancing outside my window. Today I watch others glide by like shadows on a pale wall. Today I wait, without a preference, for life to come or go.
To the homeless person who was screaming frantically at their demons last night…
I am sorry for turning away and idly standing by as others gawked. You are dangerously close to the truth and we are too cowardly to bear it.
I ducked inside a nice restaurant where I was served a meal and partook in “civilized” conversation. Up went the fancifully embroidered veil that hides me from the terror of annihilation: Is the kitchen too loud for me? Would this lovely meat pastry taste even better with ground pepper?
And here I sit, writing comfortably at my desk and imagining that I would open my door to you. The truth is that I would not. I am worse than the gawkers for believing that my awareness means anything. The moment I set the pen down my mind will busy itself with inanities while resting in its cozy bed of privilege.
We think when we should sense and speak when we should think.
Their lack of vanity reeks of vanity.