For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.

Vladimir Nabokov, The Eye (via lesangfroid)

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

I’ve never been able to enjoy a happy moment as it is. I always looked onto these occasions as one would look onto golden memories from an old age, as if the joy I am currently feeling at 21 is being funneled through the grayed edges of an octogenarian’s mind and I am only recalling this long-ago happiness. In a way, I never truly experience those moments. 

What I’m trying to say is that my happiness, like 90% of my life, is self-conscious. Any greatly positive event is processed through the lens of time. When I am truly happy, I am always cognizant of a slight tinge of sadness, as if my mind is whispering “this too shall pass” to me on the edges of memory.