angst

I won__ pretend that I deserve you. I am faithless. I have done unforgivable things. And I am broken._ He gestured to his face and body with trembling hands. __ know you see past these things when you look at me . . . but I hope I can be enough for you.___hat? Enough for me? Gabriel, you are everything.

Breasts were one thing: they were in front, where you could have some control over them. Then there were bums, which were behind, and out of sight, and thus more lawless. Apart from loosely gathered skirts, nothing much could be done about them.

Either way, he was always staring into a bottomless pit, or into a whirlpool that forever sucked him inexorably inward to its vortex.

I'm Allen Walker!"My life....is over...I'm going to die....

Phaedra of Alonso__ death was a never-ending pain that gnawed at his insides. It made him a prisoner in his own cottage.

July 22, 2009At times I still feel lost, but I also feel the comfort of my Lord through the physical pain and the mental challenges. I know He__ there. I can feel Him in the sun beaming down on my brown skin. It feels like love and comfort. It feels like He__ holding me when I suffer and I__ not alone.

What do you want to do with your life, then?_ is often the question I'm asked.To be honest, I don't know. I really don't.Mainly because I don't see myself living long enough for that to make much of a difference.

I am hell with a knife and there is nothing I can really do about it but try and keep my mouth shut and try not to let it show.

I walk around the school hallways and look at the people. I look at the teachers and wonder why they're here. If they like their jobs. Or us. And I wonder how smart they were when they were fifteen. Not in a mean way. In a curious way. It's like looking at all the students and wondering who's had their heart broken that day, and how they are able to cope with having three quizzes and a book report due on top of that. Or wondering who did the heart breaking. And wondering why.

I felt despair. The word__ overused and banalified now, despair, but it__ a serious word, and I__ using it seriously. For me it denotes a simple admixture _ a weird yearning for death combined with a crushing sense of my own smallness and futility that presents as a fear of death. It__ maybe close to what people call dread or angst. But it__ not these things, quite. It__ more like wanting to die in order to escape the unbearable feeling of becoming aware that I__ small and weak and selfish and going without any doubt at all to die. It__ wanting to jump overboard.

Oh, brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won't die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.

When I penetrate into that house, if I ever do, it will be to go on turning, faster and faster, more and more convulsive, like a constipated dog, or one suffering from worms, overturning furniture, in the midst of my family all trying to embrace me at once, until by virtue of a supreme spasm I am catapulted in the opposite direction and gradually leave backwards, without having said good evening.

Seeing the mud around a lotus is pessimism, seeing a lotus in the mud is optimism.

As soon as I decided I'd have to dig down still deeper to uncover the root of my listless withdrawal from life, I became aware of some interference from the past distracting and confusing my thoughts, causing me a sensation that was at the same time oppressive, expectant and empty. In these somewhat contradictory feelings, I came to recognize my childish sense of having run down like a clock that needed someone to wind it before it could go again; and saw that I was now no less helpless than in those far-off days when I waited for somebody to take me by the hand and tell me what to do. On my own initiative I could do nothing, take no responsibility, make no decisions only watch my existence unroll.

It__ so peaceful. I could go to sleep in here._ His eyes flickered to me once more, and for a dizzying second I wasn__ thinking about sleep or storms but about pressing my lips to his. I gave my head a slight shake and tried to slow my pulse

Every improvement in communication makes the bore more terrible.

Fly GenerationWe stand tall, we stand proud, we are the __ly_ generationWe think what we learn to think and dream with our eyes openWe keep our hearts on our sleeves for it to be brokenbut we can take it, we are the __ly_ generation.We question things when we need to understandIts important we know, how it works, where we standWhy all this pain and no explanation?we need answers, we are the __ly_ generation.We love to hate and hate to love, what have we become?Since when is that the norm? when did we succumb?The victims will be forgotten and culprits will change faceBut we will still be running, running to win the invisible race.So here__ to the untold stories and six degrees of separationwe can take it, after all_ we are the __ly_ generation.

A year earlier my parents had moved us out of the city to a split-level on Long Island, their idea of the American dream, which meant it as now an hour-and-a-half commute via the 7:06 Hicksville to Penn Station every morning. (Dark City Lights)