The only thing in this world more difficult than caring about other people is finding other people who genuinely care about you. It’s hard enough to find a job that pays your rent and doesn’t grind your soul down into a tiny sliver, never mind finding one where your experience and skills are valued, given weight or room to grow. It’s hard enough to find peers who can stand to be around you, let alone friends who think the things you care about are important and worthy of attention. Given these odds, it seems pretty much insane that any of us could ever possibly expect to find love, to find someone in this world who truly cares about who we are and where we come from and what we want.
But still we persist, because, what else? In this life, it’s totally possible — likely, even — that if you don’t try hard enough, you will end up completely and utterly alone. This is a fact, and it’s terrifying, and that terror is the catalyst for more of our decisions and actions than we might care to acknowledge. Loneliness approaches the void, and our awareness of its constant possibility is what makes us move, whether or not what we move toward is necessarily “healthy” or “good.” We work, we make art, we go on dates, we tweet, we drink, watch TV, get high, count cards, we call a phone sex line, whatever. We upload a stranger’s picture to Facebook. We answer a message from someone we don’t know.
Like it or not, life just keeps going, and loneliness is always a part of the package. No matter how great your commitment to self-improvement, you don’t ever get to shed your shadow. You can do yoga, see a therapist, make more money, drink more water, delete all your accounts, or throw your computer off the side of a mountain, but there are still going to be moments where you feel alone and afraid, where you make weird, bad choices because of that fear."
follow Adams Carvalho - A very talented artist from Brasil
Geoff Dyer (b. 1947, Hobart, Tasmania) - Lake Repulse, Fires 2 Paintings: Oil on Linen
image of Princess Diana on a yacht in Portofino, Italy, in August 1997.
What is the sound of a heart breaking?
It is the sound of someone curled up in a tiny ball crying softly in the night, the sound of the first unwanted teardrop touching your skin, it’s the sound of a telephone that doesn’t ring, the sound of regret pounding inside your brain with every heartbeat, it’s the whispers of the toy animals he gave you.
It’s the shuffling of feet walking away from you, the sound of your soul shattering into a million pieces at recognizing the word “goodbye,” it’s the soundtrack of memories torturing you, it’s the sound of feeble hands trying to push back the obstinate hands of time, it’s the sound of a cherub’s dying breath, the sound of all those years disappearing in the vortex of Cupid’s kitchen sink, it’s the unrelenting plaintive baby meows of an abandoned kitten outside an ignoring door.
It’s the sound of the rain that doesn’t ever stop, the sound of all the doors shutting and closing in your face at the same time, of raging, howling storms in the night when there’s no one there to hold you, the sound of your voice as it screams back at you, the echo of “I love yous” burning holes in you, the sound your heart makes as it tells you to lie still because nothing you will ever do will matter without love.
The sound of the waves of the polluted beach you went to as it moves from the shore and crashes inside your mind, of the sniffles that make up your pathetic “SOS-to-the-world,” the cracking of the brittle black-red petals from the sidewalk vendor roses he gave, the sound of the music he used to make going to your gut.
The sound of things in your room being thrown around and landing on the floor, the caress of kitchen knives on skin, the sound your throat makes as you swallow your saltiest tear.
It’s the sound of your own voice calling out to someone who isn’t there, of dying birds getting splattered on a city pavement, of terms of endearment used a hundred times a day struggling to crawl into a vacuum of forgetfulness, it’s the sound of your own sobs keeping you company, it’s the cold, uncaring stillness of the air you share your space with.
Destruction isn’t always as noisy as bombs exploding. Sometimes the ultimate catastrophes are as quiet as a feather falling on the floor of a Zen monastery. No one else can really hear your heart breaking except you."
Being haunted by desire of authenticity I take stealthy photos sometimes. I am interested to know how people read when they think nobody’s looking. The world surely does not exist for them at that moment.