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Sometimes, on some occasions the theme of never giving up is so abundant. I see it in anything, I see it in the kid asking his momma for a toy, to the pigeon who keeps at the crumb on the road. 

Then on other occasions the theme disappears and I see a dead pigeon. I see a kid crying for a toy he won’t have. 

I don’t think you can grasp life with one phrase or even a thousand phrases. Not giving up is not something you can always do, life, anyones life, is not a two dimensional tunnel where you are waiting to strike gold. You can’t always continue in the same route, not even in your mind. Try a new journey, on foot, and on mind. There are some things you know, and you know them so well, you can’t even put them into words. As stupid as it sounds, it is how I feel sometimes. 

Which begs the question, how could you write what you feel, and not write what you feel for. 

But life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of “parties” with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter – they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship – but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.
Sylvia Plath (via troubled)
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