/lit/ - Literature

Hello /lit/, I started writing this the other day and was wondering whether it was worth continuing.
Pic unrelated
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It was just him, alone in his room. The mist of loneliness deadened the room around him, numbing him, threatening to seep into his bones. He vaguely noticed his mother bustling around in the background, but to him it sounded lost and far away, as if he was asleep or she was a ghost. The room was cold and damp, but rather thank wakening him, it pushed him further into a trance as he got colder. He just sat there, and sat there for hours. His trance was only interrupted to go downstairs and get a cup of tea. He had been called down for dinner, but he forgot almost immediately afterwards. It was as if no-one else existed; all that was real was the numbing cold and self-absorption.

He wasn't thinking about anything special though, all he thought about was the recurring, blunt phrase, “he's dead now”.

To him, it felt like it had happened just an hour ago. The phone call, the look of absolute pale white horror on his mother's face, the pit-of-your-stomach dread that spread into his body like a poison, stopping all his organs from functioning, creating the numbing cold that was to be the setting for his despair.

He punched the wall. It felt strangely dreamlike, strangely technicolour, but the pain seemed to revive him. He punched it again. His knuckles were grazed, cracked and bleeding, and it felt good; so much better than the numb of not-being. The pain spread across the back of his hand like wildfire, and his eyes filled with tears. He didn't know if they were tears of pain, sadness, anger, or why they had come so suddenly. He just knew that at this moment, all he wanted to do was sit and cry, nursing his hand, and cry and keep on crying.

Bleary-eyed, he woke up after maybe an hour or two. His mother was no longer bustling about downstairs, and the silence satisfied him. There was something full; something full and rich about the silence that gratified his ears.

Outside his bedroom window, a single street lamp blinked on and off in the gloomy November street. The orange light enticed him closer, and he opened the window to take a gulp of fresh night air. It felt refreshing; the coolness and cleanness came in welcome contrast to his thoughts. He gazed up at the night sky, past the hesitant orange glow of the street light and into the clouds that hung above like cobwebs. A wind blew them slowly across the sky, revealing a deep starless canopy as if it was a prize exhibition in an art gallery.

Something about the orange street lamp caught his eye again. It blinked at him as if surprised. Again. On. Off. On. Off. The rhythmic periodicity hypnotised him. His eyes lost focus as he stared at the winking light. All that was left was a flickering orange blur.

Orange. Flickering.

Like fire.

He didn't want to think about that any more.

>>3767147
Slowly I massage your sleep. You’re the name of what’s in me
of dream, so sleep. The night will blanket its trees, and will doze off
on its earth as a master of a brief absence. Sleep and I will float
on drops of light that leak from a moon I enclose…

Your hair above your marble is a tent for bedouins who absently sleep
and don’t dream. Your pair of doves illuminates you from your shoulders
to your daisy sleep. Sleep upon and in yourself. Upon you
the salaam of heaven and earth opening up their halls one by one

Sleep wraps you up with me. No angels carry the bed
and no ghost awakens the jasmine. O my feminine name, sleep
since no flute cries over a mare that escapes my tents

You are as you dream, the summer of a northerly land
anesthetizing its thousand forests in the pounce of sleep. Sleep
and I don’t awake a body desiring a body in my sleep

--Mahmoud Darwish, "Sonnet IV"

>>3209218
Are you implying by that picture that you are a faggot?

Life is a bad thing.

Anyone who disagrees is unintelligent.

The immense task involved in this, what I have called the “morality of custom”, the essential work of a man on his own self in the longest-lasting age of the human race, his entire prehistorical work, derives its meaning, its grand justification, from the following point, no matter how much hardship, tyranny, monotony, and idiocy it also manifested: with the help of the morality of custom and the social strait jacket, the human being was made truly predictable. Let’s position ourselves, by contrast, at the end of this immense process, in the place where the tree at last yields its fruit, where society and the morality of custom finally bring to light the end for which they were simply the means: then we find, as the ripest fruit on that tree, the sovereign individual, something which resembles only itself, which has broken loose again from the morality of custom, the autonomous individual beyond morality (for “autonomous” and “moral” are mutually exclusive terms), in short, the human being who possesses his own independent and enduring will, who is entitled to make promises—and in him a consciousness quivering in every muscle, proud of what has finally been achieved and has become a living embodiment in him, a real consciousness of power and freedom, a feeling of completion for human beings generally.

art thread.

gogogogogogogogogogogol

lets say there are two people that live on 2 different planets that speaks 2 different languages. one day they meet. will they be able to learn each others language?

>>2370550

If you understand the background to them they are better.
On the Threshold of Eternity was completed just before van Gogh shot himself. Blue is an important colour for him. I just think its very reflective on the uncertantly he must have faced.
I secretly dislike Monet.

>>2353648

you can never have enough van gogh

btw i really enjoyed those scientific sketches you posted.. absolutely beautiful... got any more?

You have to hear this
John Berry - Playing by Heart
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfOk-qx7Xyc

Hey /lit/

Can someone point me to some readings on anarchist philosophy or ideals? Thanks.

Also, pic unrelated but one of my favorites Van Goghs.