Friday, September 29, 2006
is love really then, just a self effacing need, to escape the jarring feeling of being intrinsically alone. mere mortals mere islands, hugged, scratched and defaced by the waves that love us. i rub my two fingers together and doubt if two entities can really become one. each one blotting the other out. each one tearing at the soon to be obmitted. and then one triumphs, and then there is no love.
and regret is really such a useless thing i say. i wished i'd done all the things i'd promised myself i would. Like why didn't i go to Coldplay's concert while they were here. Those lights i say, those lights. Oh why didn't i go. It's exhilarating living as an inspiration, living for an inspiration.
The act of searching for anchors for stability are burdens i say. And the act of searching for meaning is fruitless. We all wish to believe something in us is destined for greater things, for lucid divine experiences. You know the greeks never wrote orbituaries. When someone died, they only asked one question, 'did this man live with passion.' But passion is an idea.
of all the comments i've ever received on this blog, there is this one that i like to remember and indulge myself in believing. So delusional and egotistical.
Am i beautiful? Do our definitions connect in the same spiritual luminous sense? Does your hand reach out and touch mine through my writing and through your words of reciprocation in sentiments exact? Because it's convenient to say everything is beautiful; it's another way of saying nobody is.
Joyce Lim unzipped at 4:13 PM with 0 comments
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