Ubi me prejaka reč. Ne stigoh da se sklonim.Reče je ona jutros, uz slavujevu pesmu.Sad neku tugu tešku iz sebe zalud gonim,To njeno zbogom beše premnogo i za česmuMOJIH MUCAVIH REČI I BOLNOG PONIŽENJA...I puče reč kao bič, fijukom za sva vremena,Dok se još nečem nadah, dok bejah sav sa sobom.Sad sam niko i ništa – sam sebi svoja sena,Osušen bor na hridi pred vetrovitim dobomUBI ME PREJAKA REČ, UMREŠE SNOVIĐENJA...Ne reče ko je krivac za taj metak od reči,Nekuda odskakuta, sva gipka kao srna...U meni prošlo vreme kao parastos ječi,A negde ispred oka mota se kosa crnaI OKO, BADEM ZRELI, NADOŠLO ZA VOLJENJA...Možda ću doći sebi kada pobegnu laste,Kad leto zaboravim i sav u jesen odem.Kad lepo što je, zaspi, a noć počne da rasteU meni i za mene, kad mrak okom ubodem...UBI ME PREJAKA REČ, UMREŠE SNOVIĐENJA...U toj ću noći i ja sa svojim snom umreti,Kunući ono zbogom što ga izreče ona.A nije dobro nikom svom bolu da se sveti,Neka sve ide Nebu, nek' sudi Vasiona...UBI ME PREJAKA REČ, UMREŠE SVA VOLJENJA...

لولا الألم لكان المرض راحة تحبب الكسل، ولولا المرض لافترست الصحة أجمل نوازع الرحمة في الإنسان، ولولا الصحة لما قام الإنسان بواجب ولا بادر إلى مكرمة، ولولا الواجبات والمكرمات لما كان لوجود الإنسان في هذه الحياة معنى.

If only you would realize some day, how much have you hurt me,If only your heart ever, craves for me or my presence…If only you feel that love again someday for me,If only you are affected someday by my absence…Only you can end all my suffering and this unbearable pain,If only you would know what you could never procure…If only you go through the memories of past once again,Since the day you left my heart has bled, no one has its cure…If only you would bring that love, those showers and that rain…If only you would come back and see what damage you create,I’ve been waiting for your return since forever more…If only you would see the woman that you have made,You said we cannot sail through, how were you so sure?If only you can feel the old things that can never fade,You may have moved on, but a piece of my heart is still with you…I know how I’ve come so far alone; I know how I’m able to wade,People say that I’m insane and you won’t ever come back again…Maybe you would have never made your separate way,Maybe you would have stayed with me and proved everyone wrong…If only you would know the pain of dying every day,If only you would feel the burden of smiling and being strong…

As a consequence of natural analgesic actions or as a result of the administration of drugs that interfere with body signaling (painkillers, anesthetics), the brain receives a distorted view of what the body state really is at the moment. We know that in situations of fear in which the brain chooses the running option rather than freezing, the brain stem disengages the part of the pain-transmission circuitry, a bit like pulling the plug. The periqueductal gray, which controls these responses, can also command the secretion of natural opioids and achieve precisely what taking an analgesic would achieve -- elimination of pain signals.In the strict sense, we are dealing here with a hallucination of the body because what the brain registers in its maps and the conscious mind feels do not correspond to the reality that might be perceived. Whenever we ingest molecules the have the power to modify the transmission or mapping of body signals, we play on this mechanism. Alcohol does it; so do analgesics and anesthetics, as well as countless drugs of abuse. It is patently clear that, other than out of curiousity, humans are drawn to such molecules because of their desire to generate feelings of well-being, feelings in which pain signals are obliterated and pleasure signals induced.

Dr. Bone Specialist came in, made me stand up and hobble across the room, checked my reflexes, and then made me lie down on the table. He bent my right knee this way and that, up and down, all the way out to the side and in. Then he did the same with my left leg. He ordered X rays then started to leave the room. I panicked. I MUST GET DRUGS."What can I take for the pain?" I asked him before he got out the door."You can take some over the counter ibuprofen," he suggested. "But I wouldn't take more than nine a day."I choked. Nine a day? I'd been popping forty. Nine a day? Like hell. I couldn't even go to the bathroom on my own, I hadn't slept in three weeks, and my normally sunny cheery disposition had turned into that of a very rabid dog. If I didn't get good drugs and get them now, it was straight to Shooter's World and then Walgreens pharmacy for me."I don't think you understand," I explained. "I can't go to work. I have spent the last four days with my mother who is addicted to QVC, watching jewelry shows, doll shows and make-up shows. I almost ordered a beef-jerky maker! Give me something, or I'm going to use your calf muscles to make the first batch!"Without further ado, he hastily scribbled out a prescription for some codeine and was gone. I was happy.My mother, however, had lost the ability to speak.

A feeling struck me one fine day that people call ‘love’,Before that my life was empty, all I had was loneliness and sorrow…I loved the way it felt being with him, for I felt up above,Now everything was complete and nothing remained hollow…That person who cupid made me fall for, was a God descended from heavens,I loved him with all I had, a true heart and a pure soul…I thought I achieved the meaning of life, never did I felt so glad,But when he left me amidst a chaos, I had no one with me to console…I cried, it hurt, I wept and screamed, everyone called me ‘mad’,And still I wonder if in my life, that actually was his role…But a string still binds me to my past of untold vow,Some unsaid promises that linger between us even now,Although I don’t know where he went after that fateful day…I still try to convince myself every day, I know how,Each moment has been tough, each day a new challenge…Each hour passed as if it was my heart that always allowed,One more day to live without him, one more day to cherish…One more day to spend without the love of my life somehow,But he doesn’t know that one day, the girl herself would perish…Who loved him and lived each day of her life in his wait,For the man who never returned, for the man who wasn’t in her fate…

Espero curarme de ti en unos días. Debo dejar de fumarte, de beberte, de pensarte. Es posible. Siguiendo las prescripciones de la moral en turno. Me receto tiempo, abstinencia, soledad.¿Te parece bien que te quiera nada más una semana? No es mucho, ni es poco, es bastante. En una semana se puede reunir todas las palabras de amor que se han pronunciado sobre la tierra y se les puede prender fuego. Te voy a calentar con esa hoguera del amor quemado. Y también el silencio. Porque las mejores palabras del amor están entre dos gentes que no se dicen nada.Hay que quemar también ese otro lenguaje lateral y subversivo del que ama. (Tú sabes cómo te digo que te quiero cuando digo: «qué calor hace», «dame agua», «¿sabes manejar?», «se hizo de noche»... Entre las gentes, a un lado de tus gentes y las mías, te he dicho «ya es tarde», y tú sabías que decía «te quiero»).Una semana más para reunir todo el amor del tiempo. Para dártelo. Para que hagas con él lo que quieras: guardarlo, acariciarlo, tirarlo a la basura. No sirve, es cierto. Sólo quiero una semana para entender las cosas. Porque esto es muy parecido a estar saliendo de un manicomio para entrar a un panteón.

Сверхмарафон вообще привлекает людей слегка одержимых. Чтобы пробежать 50 миль, нужно тренироваться по три часа в день, постоянно испытывая одиночество, судороги или боль, не говоря уже о неминуемых моментах сомнений и жалости к себе.

A society coming apart at top and bottom, or passing over into another form, contains just as many possibilities for revelation as a society running along smoothly in its own rut. The individual is thrust out of the sheltered nest that society has provided. He can no longer hide his nakedness by the old disguises. he learns how much of what he has taken for granted was by its own nature neither eternal nor necessary but thoroughly temporal and contingent. He learns that the solitude of the self is an irreducible dimension of human life no matter how completely that self had seemed to be contained in its social milieu. In the end, he sees each man as solitary and unsheltered before his own death. Admittedly, these are painful truths, but the most basic things are always learned with pain, since our inertia and complacent love of comfort prevent us from learning them until they are forced upon us. It appears that man is willing to learn about himself only after some disaster; after war, economic crisis, and political upheaval have taught him how flimsy is that human world in which he thought himself so securely grounded. What he learns has always been there, lying concealed beneath the surface of even the best-functioning societies; it is no less true for having come out of a period of chaos and disaster. But so long as man does not have to face up to such a truth, he will not do so.

من از بس چیزهای متناقص دیده و حرف های جور به جور شنیده ام و از بسکه دید چشم هایم روی سطح اشیاء مختلف سابیده شده ـ این قشر نازک و سختی که روح پشت آن پنهان است، حالا هیچ چیزی را باور نمی کنم ـ به ثقل و ثبوت اشیاء به حقایق آشکار و روشن همین الان هم شک دارم.

Ah, gençliğimin mabedi o sevgili nerelerde! Kaybolacak idiyse onu ne diye tanıdım ben?.. Kendi kendime: Çılgınsın! diyorum, artık bulunması olanaksız bir şey arıyorsun!Ama ben ona, o sevgiliye bir zamanlar sarılmıştım. Kalbinin atışlarını duymuştum. Yüce yaradılışı önünde kendimi benliküstüne yükselmiş gibi görürüm. Çünkü onun yanında ne kadar olabileceksem o kadar sezgili olurdum.Hey Tanrım! O zaman ruhumun hiçbir yeteneği boşa çıkar mıydı? Yüreğimin tüm evreni kucaklamadaki şaşılacak gücü onun önünde bütünüyle kendini ortaya koymaz mıydı? Yüreğin derinliklerinden yükselen ürpermeler, iki ruhun yüz yüze şimşeklenmesi aramızda her günün, bir alışverişine benzemez miydi? Ah, onunla her sohbetimiz ve iğneli şakalarımız dahil, her sözümüz inci gibi inceltilmişti, ben bunu bilirim...Asla unutamayacağım, onun ruhunun duruluğunu, sağlamlığını, onun o göksel yumuşaklığını asla unutamayacağım...

في النهاية، ما السعادة؟ الحب، يقولون لي. لكنّ الحب لا يجلب السعادة و لم يجلبها يوماً. فالحب، على العكس من ذلك! إنه حالة مستمرة من القلق، بل ساحة معركة؛ ليالٍ هجرها النوم، نتساءل فيها إن كان ما نفعله صواباً. الحب الحقيقي مزيج من الانتشاء و الغُصّة.

There are people who are destined to taste only the poison in things, for whom any surprise is a painful surprise and any experience a new occasion for torture. if someone were to say to me that such suffering has subjective reasons, related to the individual's particular makeup, i would then ask; is there an objective criterion for evaluating suffering? who can say with precision that my neighbor suffers more than i do or that jesus suffered more than all of us? there is no objective standard because suffering cannot be measured according to the external stimulation or local irritation of the organism, but only as it is felt and reflected in consciousness. alas, from this point of view, any hierarchy is out of the question. each person remains with his own suffering, which he believes absolute and unlimited. how much would we diminish our own personal suffering if we were to compare it to all the world's sufferings until now, to the most horrifying agonies and the most complicated tortures, the mostcruel deaths and the most painful betrayals, all the lepers, all those burned alive or starved to death? nobody is comforted in his sufferings by the thought that we are all mortals, nor does anybody who suffers really find comfort in the past or present suffering of others. because in this organically insufficient and fragmentary world, the individual is set to live fully, wishing to make of his own existence an absolute.

If only I could cry. I am beyond that. The light, the light, lending itself to empty downtown Saturday, but still the stupid insensate cars flush by oblivious to their stupidity, my silent plea.It isn't Mexico. It's not Paris. It's a painting by Hopper come to life. I am trapped inside a dead thing. Language is impossible here, even in English. Who has the arrogance to say: I'm mad, this is my crazy view of things, help me.I'm trapped in a silent world, a tableau of forty years ago. The walls are different, the tables, the heights of the veiling and the chairs. I loom above this letter. The view past the rows of cakes in the plate glass window is unfamiliar. I am a ghost. There is nothing now between me and death. Death is the unfamiliarity of everything, the strangeness of the once familiar. The same spatial configurations only the light is hollow, sick.I think I lack the energy to hit expensive discos which I don't know where they are to be rejected tonight. I look passable. My energy's low. I love to dance but despair is not a good muse.This Mexico, babe. Men who don't love you but act wildly as if they do initially. Self-involved, narcissistic men... The men drink and philosophize about pain. The women live it solo and culturelessly. No one cries, except easily, sentimentally. The devil, therefore God, exists.Oaxaca was a pushover compared to this. Pain had boundaries there.Spare us big cities, oh lord!

But he’d also gotten a personal prickly chill all over from his own thinking. He could do the dextral pain the same way: Abiding. No one single instant of it was unendurable. Here was a second right here: he endured it. What was undealable-with was the thought of all the instants all lined up and stretching ahead, glittering. And the projected future fear of the A.D.A., whoever was out there in a hat eating Third World fast food; the fear of getting convicted of Nuckslaugh-ter, of V.I.P.-suffocation; of a lifetime on the edge of his bunk in M.C.I. Walpole, remembering. It’s too much to think about. To Abide there. But none of it’s as of now real. What’s real is the tube and Noxzema and pain. And this could be done just like the Old Cold Bird. He could just hunker down in the space between each heartbeat and make each heartbeat a wall and live in there. Not let his head look over. What’s unendurable is what his own head could make of it all. What his head could report to him, looking over and ahead and reporting. But he could choose not to listen; he could treat his head like G. Day or R. Lenz: clueless noise. He hadn’t quite gotten this before now, how it wasn’t just the matter of riding out the cravings for a Substance: everything unendurable was in the head, was the head not Abiding in the Present but hopping the wall and doing a recon and then returning with unendurable news you then somehow believed.