When you are free, no one else is, and when you have a tightly packed schedule, everyone wants to go out with you... If this happens another 2 more times I may have to ascribe this to the tenets of Murphy's law. The laws of the sad but true... It's kind of weird, i'm free 4 nights a week, and yet, 4 to 5 different people invite me out on the one night i'm unable to avail myself...
Currently nothing else to say, busy figuring out the chords to kotaro oshio's TSUBASA~you are the Hero, my fav song of the month... Super difficult and complicated but i'm addicted to it... Haha, God bless everyone yeah.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Sick
Sigh... after doing guard duty last night, i've fallen sick again... A lot of things were running through my head today... Why do people who should be happy feel sad? Myself included... Sometimes, I just want to enjoy myself, let myself feel free... Be a useless bum, drink if I wanted to, play if I wanted to... Yet, I can't change myself so easily... So many years of playing the big brother, the trustworthy friend, the dutiful son... It's become a second skin... Haigh, actually now that I think of it, I think it's jus the flu fooling around with my body's chemistry... Gargh, will post again when I'm well. Man, I feel miserable...
Monday, April 04, 2005
Don't know what to feel
This is my first day, the first for months, I completely let my guard down. I rest awhile, just feeling tired. So I do what I haven't for months. I sit in front of a TV and just watch a show. I stopped doing that years ago, when i found music and books to occupy my time. But I just couldn't this night, so I sat and just absorbed the sights and sounds. An hour of 'Ray' and I feel absorbed into my own life. I start to do what I hate to do, yet is an intrinsic pasrt of me. I examine and analyze everything I know, everything I see. As the show progresses I see more, the more I don't want to anymore, yet I can't stop. In the second hour, like a movie parallel with life, my Father walks in. He starts playing a drum to the music from the show, a metaphor for how he's been. Always there, always essential, yet, just never really there. Then like the deja vu that emerges from my nightmare, my mom steps in. With 2 sentences, the climax I sense all night, crashes down. An inadvertent move on my part, showing I can't hear what she says, the music is too loud. My bewilderment as the door crashes, my Dad jumps out and starts swearing at her in confusion. I stand there, and I don't know what to do....
Don't know what to feel...Can someone explain to me why I feel sometimes... Like everything I do is wrong? That somehow I can do no right?... I hate this feeling, but I feel useless everyday...
(BTW, this account may sound like a lit. text, but that's just my nature whenever my thoughts are disjointed and I feel just... empty inside...)
Don't know what to feel...Can someone explain to me why I feel sometimes... Like everything I do is wrong? That somehow I can do no right?... I hate this feeling, but I feel useless everyday...
(BTW, this account may sound like a lit. text, but that's just my nature whenever my thoughts are disjointed and I feel just... empty inside...)
Sunday, April 03, 2005
One of my Fave poems...
Robert Frost (1874–1963)
Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
The poem that caught my eye
Henry Constable
[My lady's presence makes the roses red]
My lady's presence makes the roses red,
Because to see her lips they blush for shame.
The lily's leaves, for envy, pale became,
And her white hands in them this envy bred.
The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread,
Because the sun's and her power is the same.
The violet of purple colour came.
Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.
In brief: all flowers from her their virtue take;
From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed;
The living heat which her eyebeams doth make
Warmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed.
The rain, wherewith she watereth the flowers,
Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers.
[My lady's presence makes the roses red]
My lady's presence makes the roses red,
Because to see her lips they blush for shame.
The lily's leaves, for envy, pale became,
And her white hands in them this envy bred.
The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread,
Because the sun's and her power is the same.
The violet of purple colour came.
Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.
In brief: all flowers from her their virtue take;
From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed;
The living heat which her eyebeams doth make
Warmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed.
The rain, wherewith she watereth the flowers,
Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers.
Slow weeks
It's been a slow slow time these couple of weeks.. nothing much to blog about.. i'm basically most concerned about my footrot... It had healed.. but recently i believe it has returned... sickening thing... Haiz, i really wish more friends would ask me out... I'm so sian most of the time... When ppl ask me out, they do so all on the same day, then I'd be slacking at home for all the other days... Ah well, can't be helped I guess... That's all for now.. will update when more intersting stuff happen...
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