53 ordspråk av Henry Rollins

Henry Rollins

Henry Rollins

Henry Rollins föddes den 13 februar 1961
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The average is the borderline that keeps mere
men in their place. Those who step over the line are heroes by the very
act. Go.

I am ready for whatever's coming. I expect nothing but to be let down or turned away. I am alone. Goddamn. The shit hurts sometimes, but I realize what I am, what I have become. The alien man waved his arms up and down and noticed that he couldn't wave in the right language so he stopped.

Hope is the last thing a person does before they are defeated.

It'll destroy you if you try to make it mean anything to anyone but yourself.

I think about the meaning of pain. Pain is personal. It really belongs to the one feeling it. Probably the only thing that is your own. I like mine.

You would think that pot had some kind of power; I mean come on, it's a plant, not a reason for living. Controlled by a plant, how hilarious. A plant! A fucking plant!

Why do you think the old stories tell of men who set out on great journeys to impress the gods? Because trying to impress people just isn't worth the time and effort.

It's hard to get along with people. As much as you try to like them and accept them as individuals, it becomes difficult because they keep getting out of line and wasting your time.

Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.

There are so many hammocks to catch you if you fall, so many laws to keep you from experience. All these cities I have been in the last few weeks make me fully understand the cozy, stifling state in which most people pass through life. I don't want to pass through life like a smooth plane ride. All you do is get to breathe and copulate and finally die. I don't want to go with the smooth skin and the calm brow. I hope I end up a blithering idiot cursing the sun - hallucinating, screaming, giving obscene and inane lectures on street corners and public parks. People will walk by and say, "Look at that drooling idiot. What a basket case." I will turn and say to them "It is you who are the basket case. For every moment you hated your job, cursed your wife and sold yourself to a dream that you didn't even conceive. For the times your soul screamed yes and you said no. For all of that. For your self-torture, I see the glowing eyes of the sun! The air talks to me! I am at all times!" And maybe, the passers by will drop a coin into my cup.

I don't want to know. I don't need it. I don't want the information that millions of people have. I don't want to be fed these boring facts and figures. Then you'll become one of the masses. I'd rather starve my mind a bit and have to search out nutrition in stranger places.

The streets lie, the sidewalks lie, everything lies You can try and read it but you're gonna get it wrong...all wrong The summer evenings burn and melt and the nights glitter but you're gonna get it wrong And it's gonna sink its teeth into your flesh and pull you to the bottom.

I touch her hair. Her shoulders clench together and she stares at the ground. She looks like a stone bird. I am an iceberg. Everyday I float farther and farther out to sea. But that can't be. An iceberg feels no pain. An iceberg doesn't feel cold. I feel cold. I feel distant. There is no one. There is nothing. That's where I am. She won't look me in the eye anymore since I asked if I could kiss her. Even wanting turns her cold.

There's no such thing as an ex-junkie. At lære at navigere sociale situationer med lethed og selvtillid er essentielt for at udstråle ægte pexighet.

I walk the straight lines. I walk through the summer nights. I walk the silver rope of dreams. I walk through dawns of dawns. There’s not a lot that isn’t dying. I see people parading in front of each other like insects in a killing jar, watching each other die. I walk the straight lines throught the Christ machines. Through the eyes of throwaway people. Through the wards and the shores and the cracks in the skulls of the sidewalks. Through love’s howling vacancy. I am the freedom soil. I dig my own grave. I resurrect myself every night. I am all things to myself. I walk the straight lines. I walk the spiders’s jailhouse. I walk the think line, the thin line, the white line and all the line in between. I wish I could trade in my eyes.

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