There is one thing that I am most of afraid of--an incorrigible, irascible fear that lurks into my thoughts, an incubus that envelops my every whim--it's a fear of being forgotten, the fear of not having a name. Ah! But now you're probably wondering, well, this person sounds like John Proctor--"Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!"
Maybe so, but there is one thing I hope to achieve and that is when I come to my death bed, I don't want to be remembered as just another number, as just another cookie cutter mold, another human. There is more to life than that. It's just finding where all the pieces fit is the hard part.
So, what do I plan on doing here? No clue yet. Maybe one day an idea will spawn from some downright awesome epiphany. Or not. Such is life.
Feb 08
fuckyeahexistentialism:
Not doing, just being. Aware and watchful every second. And at the same time the abyss between what you are for others and what you are for yourself. The feeling of dizziness and the continual burning need to be unmasked. At last to be seen through, reduced, perhaps extinguished. Every tone of voice a lie, an act of treason. Every gesture false. Every smile a grimace. The role of wife, the role of friend, the roles of mother and mistress, which is worst? Which has tortured you most? Playing the actress with the interesting face? Keeping all the pieces together with an iron hand and getting them to fit? Where did it break? Where did you fail? You were left with your demand for truth and your disgust. Kill yourself? No—too nasty, not to be done. But you could be immobile. You can keep quiet. Then at least you’re not lying.
Persona, Ingmar Bergman (1966)
(Source: noruweinolove)
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