jeudi, décembre 01, 2005
some pretty words, some pretty pictures. to stir up the emotions of long ago. to swirl the cauldron of past memories. like the crumpled surface of old parchment, like the dust layers on old inscriptions, like the dank air trapped in the tunnels of the pyramids.
one of those moments where, as you walk around the crowd, past the ever-lively fountain, past the scores of little children, through the artificial coolness of the streets, past the promoters, past the hesitant salesgirl who gingerly probes a question but withdraws in embarrassed failure, past the smokers, past the ever-rushing crowd, one of those moments where even in the midst of all these, one can still feel truly alone in the world.
words, written, will once again fade into the nothingness of memory, covered upon by new images and people, crowded out and neglected. the essence of these thoughts will never be truly understood by anyone other than me.
some days i hearten that there are those in this world who still feel, and appreciate what i do. some days i gaze perplexily, confoundingly, morosely, reluctantly, upon those who i do not understand.
some days, i wonder if you really understand me. and, even worse, if it matters.
one moment i am exceedingly bubbly, the second moment i pop like bubbles in a cauldron: big, hot and forceful, the third moment i withdraw into a tumultous core of a smooth sphere, the fourth moment i am not there.
but, in every moment i am still myself. i can never be anyone else but myself. i can never leave myself. no matter how extreme and different, it is still me. (or perhaps you can say that in that very extremeness i am me)
recognise, see, think, and forget. for today you remember, and tomorrow i will die. the memories of humankind will once again be the blood of stones, and flow in anguish forever, in excruciatingly slow speed down the sides of the mountains.
these words here, mean nothing: this is not who you see.
these words here, were written by me.
some peace, some quiet, some sun, some rain.
some pretty words, some pretty pictures. to stir up the emotions of long ago. to swirl the cauldron of past memories. like the crumpled surface of old parchment, like the dust layers on old inscriptions, like the dank air trapped in the tunnels of the pyramids.
one of those moments where, as you walk around the crowd, past the ever-lively fountain, past the scores of little children, through the artificial coolness of the streets, past the promoters, past the hesitant salesgirl who gingerly probes a question but withdraws in embarrassed failure, past the smokers, past the ever-rushing crowd, one of those moments where even in the midst of all these, one can still feel truly alone in the world.
words, written, will once again fade into the nothingness of memory, covered upon by new images and people, crowded out and neglected. the essence of these thoughts will never be truly understood by anyone other than me.
some days i hearten that there are those in this world who still feel, and appreciate what i do. some days i gaze perplexily, confoundingly, morosely, reluctantly, upon those who i do not understand.
some days, i wonder if you really understand me. and, even worse, if it matters.
one moment i am exceedingly bubbly, the second moment i pop like bubbles in a cauldron: big, hot and forceful, the third moment i withdraw into a tumultous core of a smooth sphere, the fourth moment i am not there.
but, in every moment i am still myself. i can never be anyone else but myself. i can never leave myself. no matter how extreme and different, it is still me. (or perhaps you can say that in that very extremeness i am me)
recognise, see, think, and forget. for today you remember, and tomorrow i will die. the memories of humankind will once again be the blood of stones, and flow in anguish forever, in excruciatingly slow speed down the sides of the mountains.
these words here, mean nothing: this is not who you see.
these words here, were written by me.
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