Going Crazy

“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”

~ Charles Bukowski

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Its all so funny

Yesterday someone told me that I was quite funny.

I wanted to tell him that once you realize deep down what circus you have been thrown into, ‘being funny’ is the only sensible choice.

Beliefs

“To know one’s own state is not a simple matter. One cannot look directly at one’s own face with one’s own eyes, for example. One has no choice but to look at one’s reflection in the mirror. Through experience, we come to believe that the image is correct, but that is all.”
― The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

The Cloud in the Ice Cream

“Ask a cloud: “What is your date of birth? Before you were born, where were you?”

Listen deeply and you may hear a reply. You can imagine the cloud being born. Before being born it was the water on the ocean’s surface. Or it was in the river and then it became vapor.

It was also the sun because the sun makes the vapor. The wind is there too, helping the water to become a cloud. The cloud does not come from nothing; there has been only a change in form. It is not a birth of something out of nothing.

Sooner or later, the cloud will change into rain or snow or ice. If you look deeply into the rain, you can see the cloud. The cloud is not lost; it is transformed into rain, and the rain is transformed into grass and the grass into cows and then to milk and then into the ice cream you eat.

Today if you eat an ice cream, give yourself time to look at the ice cream and say: “Hello, cloud! I recognize you.”

― Thich Nhat Hanh,
No Death, No Fear

Seed

They tried to bury me but they didn’t know I was a seed..

हम तो दरिया हैं हमें अपना हुनर मालूम है,

जिस तरफ भी चल पड़ेंगे रास्ता हो जाएगा

When to Write

I never listen to music when I’m working. I haven’t that kind of attentiveness, and I wouldn’t like it at all. On the other hand, I’m able to work fairly well among ordinary distractions. My house has a living room that is at the core of everything that goes on: it is a passageway to the cellar, to the kitchen, to the closet where the phone lives. There’s a lot of traffic. But it’s a bright, cheerful room, and I often use it as a room to write in, despite the carnival that is going on all around me. A girl pushing a carpet sweeper under my typewriter table has never annoyed me particularly, nor has it taken my mind off my work, unless the girl was unusually pretty or unusually clumsy. My wife, thank God, has never been protective of me, as, I am told, the wives of some writers are. In consequence, the members of my household never pay the slightest attention to my being a writing man — they make all the noise and fuss they want to. If I get sick of it, I have places I can go. A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.

~ EB White

(Via Brain Pickings)