Something of Myself
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Coup de Grace
It’s been really long since I put pen to paper (yeah, clichéd)…put my thoughts onto you. You my blank screen, that used to be a blank paper, on which came pouring the thoughts of many yester years and years to be. Of memories and desire. Stirring dull roots with deep pain. Yes, Eliot.
It’s a weird juncture. This phase of mine. Caught. Enveloped.
Enmeshed.
Yes, just like George Eliot. Just like Middlemarch. Caught in-between time. The incessant longing to be where you are not. To do what you do not. To absorb what you feel. To comprehend the incomprehensible.
I sometimes think I am so similar to millions of those Victorians. Trying to make sense of time. Trying to make sense of a rapidly changing world. Of history. Of histories. Of emotions. Of past. Of all that I have always believed in and sweared by. Of trying to make history. Of wandering unknown lands. Of exploring different cultures. Of feeling superior. Of feeling inferior. Of believing in God. Of disbelieving him.
Beauty is what you think it to be. Pain is beautiful.
Longing is the distance between the last dreg in the cup and the last drop in the bottle.
Memory is what you never could make sense of.
Lust is the desire to surrender yourself.
I am what you will make out of me.
You are what I could never be.
Ramblings – that’s what this is. Cheap. Free. Mindless. Yet, pregnant.
It’s been really long since I put pen to paper (yeah, clichéd)…put my thoughts onto you. You my blank screen, that used to be a blank paper, on which came pouring the thoughts of many yester years and years to be. Of memories and desire. Stirring dull roots with deep pain. Yes, Eliot.
It’s a weird juncture. This phase of mine. Caught. Enveloped.
Enmeshed.
Yes, just like George Eliot. Just like Middlemarch. Caught in-between time. The incessant longing to be where you are not. To do what you do not. To absorb what you feel. To comprehend the incomprehensible.
I sometimes think I am so similar to millions of those Victorians. Trying to make sense of time. Trying to make sense of a rapidly changing world. Of history. Of histories. Of emotions. Of past. Of all that I have always believed in and sweared by. Of trying to make history. Of wandering unknown lands. Of exploring different cultures. Of feeling superior. Of feeling inferior. Of believing in God. Of disbelieving him.
Beauty is what you think it to be. Pain is beautiful.
Longing is the distance between the last dreg in the cup and the last drop in the bottle.
Memory is what you never could make sense of.
Lust is the desire to surrender yourself.
I am what you will make out of me.
You are what I could never be.
Ramblings – that’s what this is. Cheap. Free. Mindless. Yet, pregnant.
1 Comments:
we still await fruitation
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