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it's only after you've lost everything

that you are free to be anything

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Name:
Zöpa Namgyal
Birthdate:
5 October 1983
Location:
nomadic, blowing with the wind
External Services:
  • no_glue@myheartisbroke.com
  • kaikkiton@livejournal.com
  • polynonymous AIM status
unverschränkt
Terminal Indecision.
the particle before observed
spinning counter- and clockwise
at the same time



who i am: unverschränkt
what i look like: visualnotverbal



If you take someones thoughts and feelings away, bit by bit, consistently, then they have nothing left, except some gritty, gnawing, shitty little instinct, down there, somewhere, worming round the gut, but so far down, so hidden, it's impossible to find. Imagine, if you will, a worldwide conspiracy to deny the existence of the color yellow and whenever you saw yellow they told you no, that isn't yellow, what the fuck's yellow? Eventually, whenever you saw yellow, you would say: that isn't yellow, course, it isnt blue or green or purple, or... you'd say it, yes it is, it's yellow, and become increasingly hysterical, and then go quite berserk. -- David Edgar



"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are." -- Anaïs Nin

(and because this quote has come up independently about a half dozen times over the last few weeks: "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.")




"Yo fuí muy feliz en la juventud. Fuí un colegial un poco travieso, Esencialmente travieso..." -- Fernando Belaunde Terry



..soon all the joy that pours from everything makes fountains of your eyes..



Und meine Welt ist still --
Du wehrtest meiner Laune nicht.
Gott, wo bist du?





"We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, leaving nothing but a memory and the smell of smoke."







Rainbows are Love.








My Birthchart




Sun Sign: 11 Degrees Libra.
Moon Sign: 28 Degrees Virgo.
Rising Sign: 22 Degrees Libra
For more info, click here








this walking corpse has become a ghost

Nine months before my father's death, one of my closest friends had overdosed on heroin. Thirty-three when he died, he was a brilliant writer, a magnetic madman, good-looking, strong and strong-willed, heir to a vast family fortune. But he had an unhealthy fascination with alcohol and drugs; he was fixated on self-destruction.

I never thought he was an addict; I thought he used heroin and booze to escape the terror that was consuming him. He felt, in some way, cursed, fated to die, and he enacted his hysteric vision of his fate.

In the months after his death, I had a series of dreams about him that were similar to the dreams I had about my father months later. At first there was a lot of confusion over whether or not he was really dead. I had several dreams where he overdosed but survived. Once, we spoke about this confusion at a party. Another time I visited him in the hospital. A few times I cried to him in my dreams, sorry I hadn't done anything to help him. I told him I hadn't known how.

Almost exactly a year after his death, I had a dream where I went up into the spirit world, a kind of gray limbo accessible by rope ladder, to visit him. He seemed much calmer than in our earlier encounters. He was sitting in front of an old typewriter. I asked him what he was doing with himself now that he was dead.

"I'm writing," he said. "I'm writing about my life. I'm trying to understand what happened."


Journey to Ixtlan






this is for me, not you
ajpijejsɪmbl̩z
crap

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