Quotes About Confusion

I believe that the moment is near when by a procedure of active paranoiac thought, it will be possible to systematize confusion and contribute to the total discrediting of the world of reality.

Somos una errata que ha pasado inadvertida y que hace confuso un texto por lo demás muy claro; el trastocamiento de las líneas de un texto que nos hace cobrar vida de esta manera prodigiosa; o un texto que por estar reflejado en un espejo cobra un sentido totalmente diferente del que en realidad tiene.

Judging by your face, the what-the-fuck nodes in your cerebral cortex must be a real light show.

I don't understand my feelings. I really don't. I don't understand how I could hate you so much after so much time. How, no matter how much I'd like to not hate you, I hate you even more. It grows.

I'm inhabiting a life I'm not supposed to be in... and at certain times in my life, I have felt a wrongness. And not a moral wrongness but a sense that this isn't what I was born to be doing.

I left the room in a daze, wondering if this was all real-or if I'd finally gone insane from whacking the weasel.

The "delirium tremens" of alcoholic drunkards has unmistakable symptoms, but that of those intoxicated with theories is easily confused with genius.

I would think a person who doesn't know what's she's running from can't really be on the run, but that's not true. Here

There isn't any point to it. I'm not getting anywhere. No start, middle, or end. The children scream and I scream, and the noise we make goes out and down and round and round and round.

This whole time we've been walking, I thought we were heading somewhere, but just now, seeing her scared face, I know that we're also running away.

Why do the living assume the dead know better than we do? Like they gained some knowledge by dying, but why wouldn't they just be the same confused people they were before they died?

I felt ill at ease with all this air about me, lost before the confusion of innumerable prospects.

There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.

At no moment do I know what Im talking about, nor of whom, nor of where, nor how, nor why, but I could employ fifty wretches for this sinister operation and still be short of the fifty-first, to close the circuit, that I know, without knowing what it means.

It ain't those parts of the Bible that I can't understand that bother me, it is the parts that I do understand.

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.

But she…I…" The emptiness of his thefted recollections was real as any love loss. The rifled wallet seemed trivial. Tears banked his eyes. "But she was—" Confusion snarled the sentence's end. "What was she, friend?" Calli asked. "She…was." That was the sad entirety.

He shrugged. Confusion was like struggling to find the proper way to sit inside his skin.

Sometimes I cannot tell who wrote what. That is upsetting. With some sections, I can remember the place and time I wrote them, but have no memory of the incidents described. Similarly, other sections refer to things I recall happening to me, but kne/o/w just as well I never wrote out. Then there are pages that, today, I interpret one way with the clear recollection of having interpreted them another at the last rereading.

How the hell did I get myself involved with this broad? It's like I'm Lassie, she's Timmy, and every day is a new well.

Well, Earwig, there's not much about love that does make sense.

Trauma silences a person. It shatters your identity, and along with it, much of what you thought you knew.

It was a white pandemonium with the wrong past.

I don't know what to do two states of mind in me