Iscariot

wargsansa:

Until now, I knew this of myself
That if you had thrown yourself down
Into the lion’s den
My brother I’d follow you in
Perhaps I lack some foresight (should have known)
But brother you were so right
Sure as the setting sun
You can’t trust just anyone

Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possible have any direct correlation to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possible work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, than you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint.

(via dontbesadlove)

In a thousand years nothing will be left
of all that’s been written in this century.
They’ll read loose sentences, traces
of lost women,
fragments of motionless children,
your slow green eyes
simply will not exist.
It will be like the Greek Anthology,
but even further away,
like a beach in winter
for another wonder, another indifference.

Roberto Bolaño, In a thousand years nothing will be left (via justanotherline)