Sketching them out blanketly in the sky above the sea, lost in thought staring lightly blue. What do you do with all the images you imagine? Do you ever imagine painting them? What do you consciously do with thoughts that continually resurface? Where does it go when it feels like it evaporates? What thoughts do you choose not to entertain? What do you do when something you are thinking doesn’t make sense? How many experiences merge for you to conjure such an interpretation? When you think a thought does it stop right there?ĭo you stretch it to every corner of the world?ĭo you take it inward and sit with it real deep?ĭo you blurt it out letting it fall into the room?Īre you willing to unravel where this thought came from? © Victoria Venturella, Existential Dialogues, The Existentialist Victoria Venturella, MA, Existential Phenomenological Psychotherapist #relationshipwithself #communication #transcendence You don’t have to journal everyday to journal. Where do you file all the letters you write yourself? Those meaningful monologues of the deepest internal texture? What about those moments that you no longer feel like you are where you were? Why would you wait to tell them what you continually wish to share with them?īeing vulnerable is transformative and healing. Your top 5 posts: 'In the shower I decided I want a flatter penis. How many times does it take you to form the first sentence? Happy Cakeday, r/AskShowerThoughts Today youre 8 Lets look back at some memorable moments and interesting insights from last year. © Victoria Venturella, MA, Wait a Meta, Existential Dialogues
You know when you read something, and it feels as though the words you are reading came from your own thoughts? That happens a lot when you read philosophy, thoughts you thought no one else thought are captured in literature or philosophical novels waiting for you to see you in them. I know them intimately I have almost made a study of their faces.For two evenings I was puzzling my brains to think what amiss in my corner why I feel so uncomfortable in it.” A woman searching for a book beside you steps in-between your legs, Excuse me, I’m just searching for Camus’s The Stranger. You walk to the back isle labeled Philosophy, pull White Nights off the shelf, slide your back down the shelves sprawling your legs out as you sit to read, “It suddenly seemed to me that I was lonely, that everyone was forsaking me and going away from me.For though I have been living almost eight years in Petersburg I had hardly an acquaintance.I felt afraid of being left alone, and for three whole days I wandered about the town in profound dejection, not knowing what to do with myself.They of course do not know me, but I know them.
0 kommentar(er)
