Shivani > Recent Status Updates

the reader must be told at the outset, to avoid useless confusion, on whose evidence he can absolutely rely. That is to say, it must be assumed that somebody is telling the truth - else, there is no legitimate mystery and, in fact, no story at all.

Touchstone the sassy clown

We that are true lovers run into strange capers ; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

in the gentle condition of blood you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better in that you are the first born, but the same tradition takes not away my blood were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you.

In the end she was no more than a music box that was slightly out of tune.
I ask you:
—What is the weight of light?

As soon as you discover the truth it's already gone: the moment passed. I ask: what is?
Reply: it's not.
But do not mourn the dead: they know what they are doing.

Her effort to live seemed like something that, if shed never felt it, virgin that she was, she nevertheless intuited, because only now was she understanding that a woman is born a woman from the very first cry. A woman's destiny is to be a woman.(...)Yes, painful and such a difficult reflowering that she used for it her body and the other thing you call a soul and I call — what?

I could leave her lying on the street and simply not finish the story. But no: I'll go on to where the air runs out, I'll go to where the great gale leaps away howl-ing, I'll go to where the void begins to curve, I'll go where my breath takes me. Does my breath deliver me to God? I am so pure that I know nothing. I only know one thing: I don't need to pity God. Or do I?

I could wrap it up by taking the easiest route, killing the infant-girl, but I want the worst thing of all: life. So let those who read me get punched in the stomach to see if it's good. Life is a punch in the stomach.

But who can tell if she wasn't needing to die? Because there are times when a person needs a little bitty death and doesn't even know it. As for me, I substitute the act of death for a symbol of it. A symbol that can be summed up in a deep kiss but not on a rough wall but mouth-to-mouth in the agony of pleasure that is death. I, who symbolically die several times just to experience the resurrection.

And my life stronger than myself, replies that it wants revenge at all costs and replies that I must struggle like someone drowning, even if I die in the end.
If that's the way it is, so be it.)

(But who am I to rebuke the guilty? The worst part is that I have to forgive them. We must reach such a nothing that we indifferently love or don't love the criminal who kills us. But I'm not sure of myself: I have to ask, though I don't know who can answer, if I really have to love the one who slays me and ask who amongst you slays me.

Just as people had always done nothing for her, except that now at least they were glancing at her, which gave her an existence.

She was supersonic in life. Nobody noticed that with her existence she was breaking the sound barrier. For other people she didn't exist.

It's so I won't hurt.
What? Huh? You're hurting?
I hurt all the time.
Where?
Inside, I can't explain.
Besides she increasingly couldn't explain herself. She transformed herself into organic simplicity. And shed figured out how to find in simple and honest things the grace of a sin. She liked to feel time passing. Although she didn't have a watch, or perhaps for that very reason, she savored the greatness of time.

But I think you cannot own a thing and love it at the same time. Owning diminishes the innate sovereignty of a thing, enriching the possessor and reducing the possessed.

In any case the future seemed like it would be much better.
At least the future had the advantage of not being the present, for bad things there's always something better.

Did she feel she was living for nothing? I'm not sure, but I don't think so. Only once did she ask a tragic question: who am I? It frightened her so much that she completely stopped thinking.

Only I, her author, love her. I suffer for her. And I'm the only one who can say this: what do you ask of me weeping that I wouldn't give you singing"? That girl didn't know she was what she was, just as a dog doesn't know it's a dog.

Since there wasn't anyone to answer she herself seemed to have answered: that's how it is because that's how it is. Is there another answer in the world?
If anyone knows a better one speak up and tell me, I've been waiting for years.

she was incompetent. Incompetent for life. She had never figured out how to figure things out. She was only vaguely beginning to know the kind of absence she had of herself inside her. If she were an expressive creature she would say: the world is outside me, I am outside me.

And I want to accept my freedom without thinking what so many do, that existing is something for fools, a case of mad. ness. Because that's what it seems like. Existing isn't logical.

she like a stray dog was guided exclusively by herself. I too, from one failure to the next have reduced myself to myself
Commas but at least I want to encounter the world and its God.
I'd like to add by way of information about the young girl and myself, that we live exclusively in the present because it is always eternally today and tomorrow will be a today, eternity is the state of things at this very moment.

Things were somehow so good that they could go very bad because fully. mature things rot.

am well aware that each day is a day stolen from death. I am not an in-tellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is a moist fog.
Words are sounds transfused with unequal shadows that in-tersect, stalactites, lace, transfigured organ music.

this girl doesn't know herself except from living aimlessly. If she was dumb enough to ask herself"who am I?" she would fall flat on her face. Because "who am I?" creates a need. And how can you satisfy that need? Those who wonder are incomplete.

Forgive me but I'm going to keep talking about me who am unknown to myself, and as I write I'm a bit surprised because I discover I have a destiny. Who hasn't ever wondered: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?

ALL THE WORLD BEGAN WITH A YES. ONE MOLECULE said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I don't know why, but I do know that the universe never began.
Make no mistake, I only achieve simplicity with enormous
effort.
As long as I have questions and no answer I'll keep on writing.