dolorous interludes.
Saturday, November 01, 2003
Oscar Wilde says, "A man who moralises is usually a hypocrite." smirks. what should i think of this?
Friday, October 31, 2003
"On an evening such as this
its hard to tell if i exist"
Mornings such as these leaves one no less than contented; she feels the perfect glow of a sunny smile and crystallined crispness of fresh beauty: the baby blue sky is adorned with turfs of white candy floss all gelled into several wide-eyed cookie doughed puffs. one knows not the limits of these boundless skies, but perhaps the man in that grey aeroplane would? She is enthralled by the magnificence of such a morning; in awe of the skies above her. the swril of elegant white threads against the blue fills even a child with the greatest happiness of being rewarded an entire jugful of sugar coated raspberry swirl. the arbitrary movements of the white is even more amazing than having one's palm half immersed in the dewy lakes, watching the strangest effects of nature's ambivalence. some of it even resemble snow capped mountains shaped in grand pyramidal towers, and i, the tourist, feeling almost a servant to the majestic wonders of the world. One can only dance to the wisps of morning ambrosia, and this day, she feels neither cold nor alone but only the warmth of pure naturality, tainted not by a single strand of artificiality. She plunges into the heart of loving nature, and shuns all monolithic man-made forces that leave her with no sense of certainty, of her existence.
its hard to tell if i exist"
Mornings such as these leaves one no less than contented; she feels the perfect glow of a sunny smile and crystallined crispness of fresh beauty: the baby blue sky is adorned with turfs of white candy floss all gelled into several wide-eyed cookie doughed puffs. one knows not the limits of these boundless skies, but perhaps the man in that grey aeroplane would? She is enthralled by the magnificence of such a morning; in awe of the skies above her. the swril of elegant white threads against the blue fills even a child with the greatest happiness of being rewarded an entire jugful of sugar coated raspberry swirl. the arbitrary movements of the white is even more amazing than having one's palm half immersed in the dewy lakes, watching the strangest effects of nature's ambivalence. some of it even resemble snow capped mountains shaped in grand pyramidal towers, and i, the tourist, feeling almost a servant to the majestic wonders of the world. One can only dance to the wisps of morning ambrosia, and this day, she feels neither cold nor alone but only the warmth of pure naturality, tainted not by a single strand of artificiality. She plunges into the heart of loving nature, and shuns all monolithic man-made forces that leave her with no sense of certainty, of her existence.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
You are a philosopher. If people only knew what you
knew. But they don't.
How well do you know yourself?
brought to you by Quizilla
knew. But they don't.
How well do you know yourself?
brought to you by Quizilla
You want THE ARTIST! -- You are a creative soul,
who needs a man to match your ever-creative
flow with life! Whether he paints, sings,
writes, or sculpts nekked statues...you know
he's right for you! Perhaps a song called
"your name here" is entitled?
What kind of guy are YOU looking for?
brought to you by Quizilla
laughs. im hooked. oh dear.
INTELLIGENT GIRL: Go YOU! You are the smart one.
You enjoy the finer things in life like
classical music probably. Your smart and you
like it. Men may be intimidated by your
intelligence but some may be very impressed.
The ones who are impressed are the ones who
matter. Keep being you!
What Kind Of Girl Are You? (with pictures!)
brought to you by Quizilla
Seer
The ULTIMATE personality test
brought to you by Quizilla
Its amazing how these tests can sometimes be rather accurate.
i awoke with the sudden impulse to read Cyril's works once more, after having not touched it for almost some many months now; his words spoke to me like the gleaming reflection of the waters; so much the more that i should need to put up one of his works(and perhaps more in the days to come as i breathe more his words and nuances). This is edited slightly to suit my purpose though, and with this i bring you Cyril's "All its manifestations".
"Decided she knew nothing about
what love meant,
even as she aptly displayed
all its manifestations, pronouncing
her love
to her boyfriend before going to bed
every night for the past year.
Took him
to long nights of occasional gatherings at various
households he had hoped to come along to,
And made love
to him once every few weeks.
Started wondering if she was only
lying
to herself, in particular, or whether
love was indeed a euphemism for
something less
simplified, glorious and whole,
or a simple need dressed up in
something more
selfless, honourable, unworldly? "
"Decided she knew nothing about
what love meant,
even as she aptly displayed
all its manifestations, pronouncing
her love
to her boyfriend before going to bed
every night for the past year.
Took him
to long nights of occasional gatherings at various
households he had hoped to come along to,
And made love
to him once every few weeks.
Started wondering if she was only
lying
to herself, in particular, or whether
love was indeed a euphemism for
something less
simplified, glorious and whole,
or a simple need dressed up in
something more
selfless, honourable, unworldly? "
Sunday, October 26, 2003
"Tonight i write the saddest lines.
To think that i do not have him. To feel that i have lost him.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without him.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep him.
The night is shattered and he is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost him.
My sight searches for him as though to go to him.
My heart looks for him, and he is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love him, that's certain, but how i loved him.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch his hearing.
Another's. He will be another's. Like my kisses before.
His voice. His bright body. His infinite eyes.
I no longer love him, that's certain, but maybe i love him.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one i held him in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost him.
Though this be the last pain that he makes me suffer
and these the last verses that i write for him. "
I am made broken today. but like a jar that has to collect its rain, i hold myself in pain.
To think that i do not have him. To feel that i have lost him.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without him.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep him.
The night is shattered and he is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost him.
My sight searches for him as though to go to him.
My heart looks for him, and he is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love him, that's certain, but how i loved him.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch his hearing.
Another's. He will be another's. Like my kisses before.
His voice. His bright body. His infinite eyes.
I no longer love him, that's certain, but maybe i love him.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one i held him in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost him.
Though this be the last pain that he makes me suffer
and these the last verses that i write for him. "
I am made broken today. but like a jar that has to collect its rain, i hold myself in pain.
If i have no other virtue, I at least have the permanent novelty of free, uninhibited sensation.
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