from the book of disquiet
221
I’ve always ben an ironic dreamer, unfaithful to my inner promises. Like a complete outsider, a casual observer of whom I thought I was, I’ve always enjoyed watching my daydreams go down in defeat. I was never convinced of what I believed in. I filled my hands with sand, called it gold, and opened them up to let it slide through. Words were my only truth. When the right words were said, all was done; the rest was the sand that had always been.
If it weren’t for my continuous dreaming, my perpetual state of alienation, I could very well call myself a realist - someone, that is, for whom the outer world is an independent nation. But I prefer not to give myself a name, to be somewhat mysterious about what I am and to be impishly unpredictable even to myself.
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June 8th, 2009 at 8:29 am
When we become convinced about what we believe we become idiots.
June 8th, 2009 at 9:07 pm
how can one become a realist if you are always locked inside of you and therefor judge the world (dreamlike or not) from youre perspective?..then it becomes merely your reality..