Where there is hatred, may I bring love.
Where there is offence, forgiveness.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is desperation, may I bring hope.
Where there is sadness, let me bring joy.
Allow me to console, rather than be consoled.
To understand, rather than be understood.
To love, rather than be loved.
Because giving is receiving.
Because it is in forgiving that we are forgiven.
It is in dying that we are born into eternal life.
- "Mother Teresa Of Calcutta", 2003 movie by Fabrizio Costa.
There are some love stories that unfold in front of my eyes and I find myself constantly amazed and captured by the folds of people. At the turn of winding flowstone, two people three people walk and sing to each other. I stand atop a lonely scratch of a tree. It is the ancestor of a lightning bolt that had not quite taken shape. I am lost in their happiness. It feels as though there is a great stampede going on but all I can hear is the echo of my own screaming at the sun. There is nothing more beautiful than the quiet follies of cloudless missives sent on days when the sea licks the sand. Oh, how I wish I was on that other side.
Thrusting yourself into the limelight using others as a means to end, yet, each one nothing more than a lowly pawn in your perverted game of "I love him but I'm not gay".
Fueled by your own atmosphere of self righteousness, self importance and inferiority, a fire ignites within your eyes. Burning bright, the icy hues of putrid green permeate your mask of poorly stitched falsities and re-birth, once more, the very thing you don't want to be. YOU!
You just can't help, can you? it must be difficult making your way through your royalty life, knowing you will amount to nothing more than the shadow of the person(s) you wish to be.
Yet knowing who you are, what you are, I feel no pity nor sorrow. To be honest I feel nothing. As long as you feel the need to constantly change your colors to suit, I shall afford you the respect you bestow upon those you feed your bullshit persona, the sum total of zero.
Where I in a position to offer any advice, not that your ego would allow you to listen, I would ask that you embrace who you are and not who you want to be or others want to be. Deal with the fact that others are more successful than you because they are. Rid yourself of the high and mighty ego and learn the true meaning of humility.
As is stands behind the burning orange, black stripes and elegant form your portray, all I can see are the block spot and heart of a cheetah. Such is your want to run with the pack!
R.
I have this enormous capacity to love, yet all I seem able to love is Love itself. Love: ephemeral, inconsequential, illusive and mocking. Have I truly learned how to love people? could it be that I love them only as physical representations of the Platonic ideal? or as temporary vessels of perfect Love. All I know is; my love never fades, it only grows stronger as it passes from vessel to vessel. This is wonderful for Love, but perhaps not so great for me and the other mortals whose limbs and hearts become tangled with mine. There are a lot of scraped knees, bruises, cuts, gashes and sometimes whole limbs severed, mine, yours, who knows. But there’s no time for regrets, Love stays one skip ahead of me, and blindly I chase it, disintegrating, leper-like, as I go.
Good Morning Indonesia.
There is nothing that so alters the material qualities of the voice as the presence of thought behind what is being said.– Marcel Proust
My ears are always hungry. They have their own sense of taste, their own sense of filtration. But there is nothing more delectable than verba; sips for thirsty ears… not just bland words but filled sentences. They aren’t just sounds that break the silence. They’re meditative tones in the middle of all the white noise.
Some of my fondest memories are the chance words, the one-liners people have said to me that catch me so off guard that I’m completely unable to speak afterwards. It’s why I have my notebook with me at all times… just to collect these fleeting breaths of gold that take my own away.
I like to daydream about a giant book that would collect all the words ever spoken (or even thought) in the history of existence. I imagine this enormous tome, dusty with age, filled page after page with the daily garble that comes out of our mouths. What a privilege it would be to read it.
I like to imagine having a giant instant messenger chat log of every conversation I’ve ever had since I was born.
What would I revisit? What would I avoid?
Would I be surprised with what has been said? Would I take back anything? Would I want to change any of it?
In a way, this is the spontaneous screenplay of our lives that, in seconds after the line is delivered, becomes a fragment of our histories. A lifelong production that is perpetually changing in all the nuances of the performance.
And yet there are scenes that are eternal. Ones that still give us chills when we replay them.
