I’m not mad at you for not giving a shit. I’m disgusted with myself for thinking you did.
(1/365) by (KJ)
I knew it wasn’t too important, but it made me sad anyway.
J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (via evenkittieshavebaddays)
But I do not wish to escape to myself, I wish to escape from myself. I wish to obliterate my consciousness and my knowledge of independent existence, my guilts, my secretiveness, what you would (perhaps unkindly) call my “hypocrisy”. I am no child of nature, I am ugly and imperfect to myself, and I cannot through poetry or romantic visions exalt myself to symbolic glory.
Allen Ginsberg, from a letter to Jack Kerouac