I've been meaning to blog for a while now. Finally i've been inspired enough to give it a go. It was always a piss-off cuz it took too damn long to open an account ans start blogging. But after reading stuff put up by shakunt and tabu, i thought that i might as well give it a go. so, Hey ppl!! here's some stuff for you to chew on. if you gotta say something about something you read on this page, feel free to post your comment. don't be a lazy bitch like me, i'd like to hear from you. so if you have to say something, click the link and say it!!
I thought i'd start off with one of the latest things i've written. I was sitting in the NCC (overpriced, underground) with a bunch of buddies. something had been nagging me for a while (chicks dude, chicks!), and i felt like writing. and the following came out...
Learn to Sew
Time. Inescapable. But continually running away from me. From those around me. The inevitable circle of the second hand, the minute hand, the hour hand. Moving forever on in their intricate, endless ritual. The epitome of precision, yet incapable of achieving true perfection. For every year loses a few seconds, every decade a few minutes, every millennium a few hours, every eon a few years perhaps. So, time loses itself, but still moves on, inexorably, excruciatingly. There always seems enough of it to waste, yet not quite enough when it runs out.
Why do people wait? Why prolong your agony, especially when you have a choice? Every moment of my life presents a new challenge, a new thought. For are we not the captives of our own intellect? Are we not continually in the search for freedom; from our surroundings, our pressures, from time, and perhaps, from ourselves?
Why don’t people say what they want to? Or what they have to? Worse still, why don’t people say what they want to, when they know they have to say it to retain their sanity, their happiness, their smile? What pleasure do we get from pain? What peace do we find in loneliness? What sense does it make to be by yourself even when you are surrounded by all?
Love or sorrow. Take your pick. Too often the one leads to the other, and just as often it’s vice versa. Like the hands of the clock, it is a perennial circle. But what of those who can’t find love? Or of those who don’t want to? Or of those who are afraid? Are they wretched, miserable, pitiful, cursed? Doomed to remain insatiated? Or will the inevitable grip of that most comforting of human emotions find them as well?
We come back to the same question, as inane, yet as profound, as some pagan ritual. Why don’t people say what they have to?
Too many questions. Too many questions.
This chapter’s over.
Turn the page.
Time. Inescapable. But continually running away from me. From those around me. The inevitable circle of the second hand, the minute hand, the hour hand. Moving forever on in their intricate, endless ritual. The epitome of precision, yet incapable of achieving true perfection. For every year loses a few seconds, every decade a few minutes, every millennium a few hours, every eon a few years perhaps. So, time loses itself, but still moves on, inexorably, excruciatingly. There always seems enough of it to waste, yet not quite enough when it runs out.
Why do people wait? Why prolong your agony, especially when you have a choice? Every moment of my life presents a new challenge, a new thought. For are we not the captives of our own intellect? Are we not continually in the search for freedom; from our surroundings, our pressures, from time, and perhaps, from ourselves?
Why don’t people say what they want to? Or what they have to? Worse still, why don’t people say what they want to, when they know they have to say it to retain their sanity, their happiness, their smile? What pleasure do we get from pain? What peace do we find in loneliness? What sense does it make to be by yourself even when you are surrounded by all?
Love or sorrow. Take your pick. Too often the one leads to the other, and just as often it’s vice versa. Like the hands of the clock, it is a perennial circle. But what of those who can’t find love? Or of those who don’t want to? Or of those who are afraid? Are they wretched, miserable, pitiful, cursed? Doomed to remain insatiated? Or will the inevitable grip of that most comforting of human emotions find them as well?
We come back to the same question, as inane, yet as profound, as some pagan ritual. Why don’t people say what they have to?
Too many questions. Too many questions.
This chapter’s over.
Turn the page.
Posts
2 comments:
too many words... quite the opposite of what your idea is... why write so much to say so little???
captives of our inane intellect,indeed.. sotto voce..full on!!!
Post a Comment