I had a vague feeling that I would not be able to terminate a thing without knowing what it was. I needed to seek for myself, and record all on paper, from which I could read and see myself. I had to be real, so that my death would be real.
Gotta have roots before branches,
To know who I am before knowing who I am gonna be.
there will be times when we forget that we are all born and drowned in this ocean of loneliness. and that surrounding ourselves with people we often call friends, and pouring out our deepest and most sincere secrets to them may not pull us out of the suffocating mess inside of us. no. it has never been true.
and all good things come to an end. sooner or later.
Weird poem on a door in the library.
This is just to say
I have eaten
that were in
you were probably
saving for breakfast
they were delicious
and so cold.
- William Carlos Williams
Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors, but all boys have the same creed: to enjoy every second of every minute of every hour of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere—on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them, and Heaven protects them.
A boy is Truth with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with bubble gum in its hair, and the Hope of the future with a frog in its pocket. When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic, jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite—he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sword-swallower, the energy of a pocket-sized atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a firecracker, and when he makes something, he has five thumbs on each hand. He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines.
He is not much for Sunday School, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime. Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs, and breezes. Nobody else can cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, three feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, two gum drops, six cents, a slingshot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code ring with a secret compartment.
A boy is a magical creature—you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can’t lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can’t get him out of your mind. Might as well give up—he is your captor, your jailer, your boss, and your master—a freckled-faced, pint-sized, cat-chasing, bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with only shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them like new with two magic words, “Hi Dad!”
“What Is a Boy?” pamphlet distributed by New England Life Insurance Co Boston, 1956
from an old email. very old.
i woke up at 7 this morning and noticed it was raining outside.
i am a simple person. listening to the birds tweeting, watching the still trees in the rain and just talking to you bring me comfort and unreasonable joy.
but in such a rainy day like today, i felt lazy.
i only wished for someone (i mean you) laying in my arms, in a spring rainy morning, and we would just lay there, doing nothing at all. or even if i had to go, i could pretend that i was super sick so that i could stay home and snuggle with you. then i realized there was no one here with me. reluctantly, i got up preparing for my interview.
showering, i was thinking of you
on my way to the workplace, i was also thinking of you
just before the interview, i missed you badly
so i am writing this silly email, to let you know that i am sorta kinda probably a little bit missing you. there are some ridiculous things i also want to include in this email:
1. i miss you
today, i was interviewing in an inexplicable yearning.
it is a strange song for most people. it caught my ears nonetheless. i play it in days like this, when it is beautifully sunny outside, when i feel extremely lazy, laying next to the window, and sunbathing. i close my eyes and let my imagination soar, wander back to the past summers. first love was a colorful kaleidoscope. laughters and awkward moments.
is is sorta funny listening to those cold-hearted and idiotic lyrics sung on such a pure and beautiful melody like that of a music box.
…forgive me first love but we’re through, i need to taste the kiss from someone new…
i loved them from this very first cover. and finally, the studio version came out yesterday. totally love it.
Everyday I spend my time drinking wine, feeling fine…