Month: June 2007

meow.

the cat had a thorn in her paw that was hurting her.
and everyone who went near to see if they could help got hissed at.
those brave enough who cared enough to touch the spot got scratched across their faces.

sorry.

ps: it would have been so perfect.

命中注定- Harlem Yu

忽然大雨 我們有緣相遇 你也在這裡 被雨淋濕
小小的屋簷 就這樣變成你 我的傘
萍水相逢 我們還很陌生 你說人和人 有一種緣份
很像晚風 輕輕吹拂街上人們面容 那麼輕鬆
你讓我相信 有命中注定 你問我雨後 可有彩虹？
這樣的大雨 這樣的相遇 你很純真 我被打動
人的心中 都有個孩子 特別容易 和純真接近
奇怪的是 地球幾億幾千萬個人 我特別想你
你讓我相信 有命中注定 你問我雨後 可有彩虹？
人的一生中 際遇常常有 並非每段 都有感動
人的心中 都有個孩子 特別容易 和純真接近
奇怪的是 地球幾億幾千萬個人 我特別想你

:) i is amazing!

then i’ll see you on sunday

The Day is Done
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night
As a feather wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of the day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time.

For, like the strains of martial music,
Their mighty throughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest.

Read from the humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read the treasured volume
The poem of my choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Malignant Self Love – Narcissism Revisited, by SAM VAKNIN

an exerpt:
I study death as one would an especially curious insect, part metal, part decomposing flesh. I am detached and cold as I contemplate my own demise. The death of others is but a statistic. I would have made a great American governor, or general, or statesman – sentencing people to a bureaucratic, emotionless, end. Death is a constant presence in my life, as I disintegrate from within and from without. It is no stranger, but a comforting horizon. I would not seek it actively – but I am often terrified by the abhorrent thought of immortality. I would have gladly lived forever as an abstract entity. But, as I am, ensconced in my decaying corpse, I would rather die on schedule.

Hence my aversion to suicide. I love life – its surprises, intellectual challenges, technological innovations, scientific discoveries, unsolved mysteries, diverse cultures and societies. In short, I like the cerebral dimensions of my existence. I reject only the corporeal ones. I am enslaved to my mind and enthralled by it. It is my body that I hold in increasing contempt.

While I fear not death – I do fear dying. The very thought of pain makes me dizzy. I am a confirmed hypochondriac. I go into a frenzy at the sight of my own blood. I react with asthma to stress. I don’t mind BEING dead – I mind the torture of getting there. I loathe and dread prolonged, body dissolving, maladies such as cancer or diabetes.

Yet none of this motivates me to maintain my health. I am obese. I do not exercise. I am internally inundated by cholesterol. My teeth crumble. My eyesight fails. I can barely hear when spoken to. I do nothing to ameliorate these circumstances beyond superstitiously popping assorted vitamin pills and drinking wine. I know I am rushing towards a crippling stroke, a devastating heart attack, or a diabetic meltdown.

But I keep still, hypnotized by the on-coming headlights of physical doom. I rationalize this irrational behaviour. My time, I argue with myself, is too precious to be wasted on jogging and muscle stretching. Anyhow it would do no good. The odds are overwhelmingly adverse. It is all determined by heredity.

I used to find my body sexually arousing – its pearly whiteness, its effeminate contours, the pleasure it yielded once stimulated. I no longer do. All self-eroticism was buried under the gellous, translucent, fat that is my constitution now. I hate my sweat – this salty adhesive that clings to me relentlessly. At least my scents are virile. Thus, I am not very attached to the vessel that contains me. I wouldn’t mind to see it go. But I resent the farewell price – those protracted, bilious, and bloody agonies we call “passing away”. Afflicted by death – I wish it only to be inflicted as painlessly and swiftly as possible. I wish to die as I have lived – detached, oblivious, absent minded, apathetic, and on my terms.