Jeff Buckley’s Journal

Sensitivity isn’t about being wimpy. It’s about being so painfully aware that a flea landing on a dog is like a sonic boom.

I don’t need acceptance from the outside to sing my love.

May you all find the best of happinesses in the year to come. Don’t feel down!

My real father is my word. My real mother is my music. My mother’s child by my father is my voice. My parents are all benevolent, all-loving, helpful and challenging and so, so much in love.

I need to relentlessly dig down dig down until my muscles are rock and eyes are stars and my breasts are heavy with milk.

Merry Christmas all and a kiss for your New Year’s headache. Bye. Jeff

Poor little lonesome, how much more can you take?

The revolution to end all revolutions, for all time forever, it isn’t as far a journey and as bloody a battle as the world thinks it is.

Either you live as a song, or rot to death as a special effect.

So you see me as I really am A railroad track abandoned.

Nobody is going to walk just for moving or to think for the sake of thinking. For the ecstasy of witness brings on a whole new meaning.

Either you fly through thick life, a beautiful aching crawl through its muddy music—or you die as a device.

It’s a sad world.

I need to learn the language of my dreaming, night after night.

The greatest common desire of these people is to see and be seen by each other. Not much else can matter.

Let him kill me let him run let him blow away the mediocre white boy narrative

Strong people know their mind. They use it all the time and hard, too. Not just to survive, but to create their life.

Today I was thinking about lovers.

Relentless endless joy peaking into tears, resting into calmness, a simmering beauty.

Get out of your music: EGO and trepidation Leave in: PURE SOUL and TRUTH