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Thursday, February 24, 2005
The Lilac Sheafs:
16th February 2005
Why do we let small insignificant things affect us so much? Things that we once told ourselves over and over again that they don't matter and now they do.
What's with this masochistic entrenchment of our minds, our hearts, our spirit? Why do we do silly things which only serve to plunge ourselvecs into a mindgame perpetriated by no puppetmaster?
It's stupid, silly, a bloody waste of time. There's so much more work and errands that could be done with all the effort and supervision that went to the meaningless games which in turn develop rules of their own and entrap you in a corner.
One can only lead a double life for so long before being sucked into one or the other, and finally finding yourself plunging headlong into the lie-ridden abyss and shedding your facades one by one, exposing more than what you intended to conceal.
The curse of the devil is temptation, and I've lost that battle. Time after time after time. Lines blurred, lies thicken, alliances change, and feelings alter. Paranoia slips in and causes disturbances that suspicion and mistrust fuel. Insecurities grow and consume themselves. It is essentially a fight for one's own sanity and peace of heart.
" ... a careless woman who craves chance and circumstance, who fails to focus on that golden rinf, will find that her insouciance leads to forever singledom... Is it just dating fatigue? Are they too tired to try? Is this what happens to you? " - Elizabeth Wurtzel
This is why I don't want to fall in love:
- Because the opening of the heart empowers someone with the unconscious ability to reach into your heart and wrench it.
- Because the knowledge that you are vulnerable to everything that person does does nothing to soothe the pain.
- Because the paranoia of love means every single little thing he does can affect you in a million adverse ways.
- And because he is simply oblivious to the vastness of the power he holds.
I hate how I make me feel.
I hate how I let you make me feel.
I'm not ready for it, not even a sample taster,
so please,
remove thy wares from my heart,
and leave this life blessed be.
24th February 2005
Sometimes, you wonder why you're so detached from the hustle bustle of your life, and when you should rightfully be anxious, you're not. On the contrary, you're laid back and relaxed, and believe blindly that all will turn out well in the end.
Which it does, eventually, all in due time...... but that's not the point. The point is, Why the fatalism? The cynicism? The resignation? Things change, life goes on. But the past stays the same. You wonder, you pine, and you yearn. For the past. For the future. For the future to hold the glory of the past in its embrace. And for the brilliance of the past to shine on and light your way.
But things change, and you know now what you knew in the past, that all you saw was your own need for an illusion. That everything was beautiful and in place, where the flowers bloomed and the leaves were full, where things were simple and pure, and you could have the world without sacrificing your heart.
But you see, the illusion falls away, and leaves you standing naked in nothingness, and all that's left is an empty echoing shell of spent feelings and insincere thoughts, untrue words which once seemed real and throbbing, but now reek with the stench of frivolity.
You pine and you wonder and you long for what was, yet at the same time, you reject yourself for what you are. You accept the rejection and leave, a bundle, of insecurities and entanglements. It's not easy.
Life was never easy.
But I didn't have to make it that hard for myself.
The sole solace is in the poetry of words, in hearing the silent music play and dance along with it, and feel its pulsings and rhythms. At least, for the moment, the music of words dulls the droning of longing in my heart, and they merge to form a melancholy song.
"To sleep with a woman: it can seem of the utmost importance in your mind, or then again it can seem like nothing much at all. Which only goes to say that there's sex as therapy (self-therapy, that is) and there's sex as pastime.
There's sex for self-improvement start to finish and there's sex for killing time straight through; sex that is therapeutic at first only to end up as nothing-better-to-do, and vice versa. Our human sex life - how shall I put it? - differs fundamentally from the sex life of the whale.
We are not whales - and this constitutes one great theme underscoring our sex life."
- A Wild Sheep Chase, Haruki Murakami
Listen.
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