Monday, May 13, 2013

Old wounds hurt most, I learned this today, because they take on new meaning and depth each time a chance for reconciliation or healing is lost, because forgiving would mean too much pain, because the letting go of such pain closely cradled to the heart hurts more keenly, because of false pride which allows for unshed tears, because...

With each year and trite seconds, with each click of the boxes on your cheatsheet, I learn and live what you must have had, or so I imagine, and I cannot breathe, the noose tightening around my neck, and I am ashamed for not being the person I could have been nor will be.

Thank you for not walking away.

she procrastinated @ 00:38 |

Thursday, October 20, 2011

She speaks, repeating the old litanies, of worn accusations breathed anew, of calamitous windfalls, and I listen, to the raspy phonetics of the finite, the ticker tape is coming to the end of the roll, and I listen, aggrieved, for she knows, her swansong is nigh, the circle of 5ths, no longer more.

she procrastinated @ 03:22 |

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

time skips

I have some unexpected spare time today. Not at the right time to address the present calls of love and duty, but enough such that I learn past lessons and experience the old as new.

Earlier on this year, there were two prominent cards, and I had to make a choice between the two. I think I did, and now I miss the other. But I remain transfixed, unable and unwilling to cross the yawning chasm of time, space and tears that would also bring about a renewal of strictures long past. Regrettably or otherwise, I can no longer live for yesterday or today.

I have lived and died with each song and verse, with each crystal of snow, and with each fallen leaf of light. Too much, I have lost, with each unbecoming, but I can no longer stop, and I can no longer close my eyes.

she procrastinated @ 02:34 |

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

and it all comes together!

With hysteric hilarity, I stand outside, looking in, there I belong. Nowhere, no where, not knowing how to write the right despite knowing what went wrong. To conform, I refuse, a moot point, I have no ability to.

I am more inflexible than I thought I was, and in that, as rigid as you are.

she procrastinated @ 01:56 |

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

beethoven's symphony no.7 2nd mvt

The choice is made, the show must go on.

she procrastinated @ 01:14 |


I will like to spend my days, as though they are my own, which I mostly end up doing in halves, for duty beckons, and I am answering its clarion call. Soon enough! I am also a veteran procrastinator.

fresh monodies

Old wounds hurt most, I learned this today, becaus...
She speaks, repeating the old litanies, of worn ac...
time skips
and it all comes together!
beethoven's symphony no.7 2nd mvt
towards that something
In the alley of shadows and death
Masking Tape
another end of the world

previous rants

August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
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January 2006
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March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
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October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
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April 2007
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October 2007
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January 2008
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November 2008
December 2008
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March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
November 2010
January 2011
February 2011
August 2011
October 2011
May 2013

treatises on life

arty jen
betty boop
chasing snowy cars
cheeky lynn
cheryliciously glam
clean and cute
cyclist-mad bass
darling dominic
feisty jing
fellow ditz-sista/porkSTAR
hail mary!
hell's kitchen
hero on the beach
h-Euge heart
hunky lenny
lipgloss queen
little cheryl
live n learn, baby
lolita lou
loony loon
mr popular
musically dan
m y s t j
princess tania
roger smurf
runaway pigeon
sabotage king jeremiah
sibling angst1
sibling angst2
spector dan
spunky tian
steffy bunny
teeny wee-nee
weeeee, leonard!
yangtze yang'en

frivolous pursuits

for shallow ppl
for very geeky ppl
for the truly bored
spun prose
binary thoughts
past imprints
some stamps
montage of images
other memories

mulling over

"One is wicked, because one see things clearly." - Beaumarchais's Le nozze di Figaro.

And there were phlegmatic souls.