Emile Cioran

Presently reading, and starting to take some notes.

The Trouble with Being Born

Time was becoming unstuck from being.

Carried away by irresistible desire to proclaim.

Long to be free — desperately free.

Forget to be born.

When we have worn out the interest we once took in death…we fall back on birth, we turn to a much more inexhaustible abyss.

ME: Death was FELT as an inherent charm, employed by my fancy as a fugitive doorway to freedom. Everywhere else was proscribed. Considered by startling pliancy of my imagination as basically a killer, as bordering on evil. Why my menace was born — began to howl for space to think, to overthink, languor, moon, thrum shrill murk mourn, for a place that could not be proscribed by body and limits of time, a freedom for reverie that could withstand its own consciousness.

As we say in French, j’ai mal.

Crept out of somewhere.

Tendencies toward an inner quest. Set failure above any success — permits us to see ourselves as God sees us —

Two kinds of mind: daylight and nocturnal.

ME: A little night music.

Mystery and inconsequentiality — between the pyramids and the morgue.

If attachment is an evil —

If a monk became proud of a task was to forsake it.

ME: I got caught up in a chain of belief, where if I did it well, suddenly — and were then to become proud of it, I was bound to fail — loose connection to indescribable what, of that moment, of sudden awareness that created it. The sirens attaching to this belief — at end of day, were part of that thing that caused me to freak after any success. Distrusted pride as an enemy to consciousness. But in fact there is also its opposite, that I can bring myself to trust it — if willing to investigate if willing to be vigilant. Fully accept its materialization as a point of context and part of MY continuity. Tho some early successes were so sudden and sweet, they seemed to come out of nowhere, there was no context I could give to it, except that, on an off chance, I wrote something that was in deed incantatory — and my hungry pride of menaces had not spoiled it.

Heights of Despair

All kinds of insights would blend and flourish in a fertile effervescence.

ME: AKA miracle mush, to my agents of the valiant “brooding woody.” Who I marry with the cryptic — with language as la chute, as it is slippery — a freedom I proclaimed for myself to compose to.

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