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We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 43
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Medal
Cheer
Finish
Line
Shuffle
Walking
Medals
Lines
Cheering
Sleep
Fog
Marathon

More quotes by Isaac Marion

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I used to split my time between writing, music and painting. I would work on a book and then abandon it, start a band, do an album, quit music, then do a gallery show. Eventually I decided to give writing a serious shot.
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It’s sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.
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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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Life only makes any sense if we can see time how God does. Past, present, and future all at once.
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I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
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In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.
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I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.
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The kind of stuff I usually read is a bit more on the literary side, like books that I think are influential in the sense that they're doing pulpy subject matter in a refined way. Like 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, I loved that book.
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I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.
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When the entire world is built on death and horror, when existence is a constant state of panic, it's hard to get worked up about any one thing. Specific fears have become irrelevant. We've replace them with a smothering blanket far worse.
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I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.
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I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?
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Of course, if I eat all of him, if I spare his brain, he'll rise up and follow me back to the airport, and that might make feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what 'friends' are any more, but that might be close.
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No praise, no blame. Just so.
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I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming the scraps of beauty make it worse.
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Maybe this is why I sleep only a few hours a month. I don't want to die again. This has become clearer and clearer to me recently, a desire so sharp and focused I can hardly believe it's mine: I don't want to die. I don't want to disappear. I want to stay.
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I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.
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I wince at her use of the word human. I've never liked that differentiation. She is living and I'm dead, but we're both human. Call me an idealist.
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Every time I go to sleep, I know I may never wake up. How could anyone expect to? You drop your tiny, helpless mind into a bottomless well, crossing your fingers and hoping when you pull it out on its flimsy fishing wire it hasn't been gnawed to bones by nameless beasts below.
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What's the point of trying to fix a world we're so briefly in?
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