[b]Karl Ove Knausgard
I’m not interested in the words or the meaning of the words. I’m interested in disappearing in it completely, to not be aware of yourself at all. That’s the way music works for me. It’s purely emotional. It goes straight to the heart. There are no explanations. That’s just it.[/b]
As it should be.
Saying what you believe others want to hear is, of course, a form of lying.
So you better be good at it.
And it’s a disquieting thought that not even the past is done with, even that continues to change, as if in reality there is only one time, for everything, one time for every purpose under heaven. One single second, one single landscape, in which what happens activates and deactivates what has already happened in endless chain reactions, like the processes that take place in the brain, perhaps, where cells suddenly bloom and die away, all according to the way the winds of consciousness are blowing.
I couldn’t have said it better myself. Though not for lack of trying.
For me, personally, it is very important that the days are exactly the same, so I have routines. I do the same thing every day.
Me too. In fact I’m doing it now.
I have a longing for fiction — to try to believe in it and to disappear into it.
Actually, this is a real condition.
Shame tells you when you’ve gone too far. Then you try if it’s okay to go too far. And it might be so that shame was right. You can never, never know that.
With shame one size never fits all.