Diary

It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.We all die. The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.Just for the record, the weather today is calm and sunny, but the air is full of bullshit.You're always haunted by the idea you're wasting your life.Everyone's in their own personal coma.Just for the record, she still loves you. She wouldn't bother to torture you if she didn't. For the record, knowing when people are only pretending to like you isn't such a great skill to have.You have endless ways you can commit suicide without dying dying.Angel says that rich people don't like to tolerate much. Money gives you permission to just walk away from everything that isn't pretty and perfect. You can't put up with anything less than lovely. You spend your life running, avoiding, escaping.you're doomed at being you.The truth is, wherever you choose to be, it's the wrong place.If you're not drunk and half naked by this point, you're not paying attention.Just for the record, being smeared with shit and naked in the wilderness, spattered with pink vomit, this does not necessarily make you a real artist.You'll need to suffer to make any real art.Where every day doesn't start with an alarm clock and end with the television.A couple drinks. A couple aspirin. Repeat.Many people have to really suffer before they can risk doing what they love.Carl Jung called this his shadow work. He said we never see others. Instead we see only aspects of ourselves that fall over them. Shadows. Projections. Our associations.She drank a glass of wine and looked for something new to ruin with her lack of talent.Suffering is key to inspiration.

And she looked at Peter and said,"My name's Misty,"and she held out her hand. And slow,Peter's eyes still on hers,her reached uo and opened the slasp behind the brooch. His fave winced,every muscle pulled tight foe a second.His eyes sewed shut with wrinkles,he pulled the long pin out of his sweater.Out of his chest. Out of your chest.Smeared with your blood. He snapped the pin clised and put the brooch in her palm. He said,"So,you want to marry me ?" He said this like a challenge,like he was picking a fight,like a gauntlet thrown down at her feet.Like a dare.A duel.His eyes handled her all over,her hair,her breates,her legs,her arms and hands.Like misty kleinman was the rest of his life. Dear sweet Peter,can you feel this? And the little trailer park idiot,she took the brooch

简直是最喜欢的爱情小说片段