Wednesday, March 07, 2007
What shall I do with this absurdity,
O heart, O troubled heart.
ha. Hello literature. I need to catch up with you to hold your hand :] Lit lessons are quite delightful I must say. Mr Whitby and his certain scornful ways aside, I've learnt quite a couple of stuff within 2 lessons? ( certainly, miss lee jiafang's notes would gladly be appreciated :] )
Theory's gonna be over soon. I have many good plans for my post-theory-worrying days such as ridding the thursdays " damnyouihavetheoryimpathetic" blues. However, I still do not make it for trngs which is tragic. I would like to grow to love thursdays some day. Some day, in September where I get liberated.
Liberated.
From all these certain worries that plague me in my sleep. That lie in the realm of subconscious , haunt me when I'm conscious. Wished I wouldnt harbour intentions of stabbing you , snarling like a cat, showered with cold water. Wished I could forever, keep you fondly inside. But thenI gently remind myself all the time it was I who slowly crease the pages of a new and hopeful book, bending their previously perfect edges , blunting the sides of the tough cover which shielded it from all the impending siths I could have needed to take.
So the book was taken off the shelf. Too dire a state for whoever to accept. Beneath that cover lies a certain spirit which lingers , among the words which bore much meaning to send the most ungrateful person who had a bad day, to sleep, smiling. Lingers, to make everyday as hopeful as it might be.
Spirits of such do get tired for once in a while, the book by all means of accident, falls off the shelf and allows its pages to run freely, losing all means of order , stopping at a certain chapter where it couldnt bore to remain at. Just plain tired
I just somehow feel rather sorry for myself , not knowing what the last page , if any would be like. Now, that books lies in a corner where I would constantly look over my back and then turn back to wonder if I ever knew what it really was about.
I wish, at times like these. I would find the effort and time to pick the book up , just not any other, again.
Please don't change, please don't break
The only thing that seems to work at all is you
Please don't change, at all from me
To you, and you to me
O heart, O troubled heart.
ha. Hello literature. I need to catch up with you to hold your hand :] Lit lessons are quite delightful I must say. Mr Whitby and his certain scornful ways aside, I've learnt quite a couple of stuff within 2 lessons? ( certainly, miss lee jiafang's notes would gladly be appreciated :] )
Theory's gonna be over soon. I have many good plans for my post-theory-worrying days such as ridding the thursdays " damnyouihavetheoryimpathetic" blues. However, I still do not make it for trngs which is tragic. I would like to grow to love thursdays some day. Some day, in September where I get liberated.
Liberated.
From all these certain worries that plague me in my sleep. That lie in the realm of subconscious , haunt me when I'm conscious. Wished I wouldnt harbour intentions of stabbing you , snarling like a cat, showered with cold water. Wished I could forever, keep you fondly inside. But thenI gently remind myself all the time it was I who slowly crease the pages of a new and hopeful book, bending their previously perfect edges , blunting the sides of the tough cover which shielded it from all the impending siths I could have needed to take.
So the book was taken off the shelf. Too dire a state for whoever to accept. Beneath that cover lies a certain spirit which lingers , among the words which bore much meaning to send the most ungrateful person who had a bad day, to sleep, smiling. Lingers, to make everyday as hopeful as it might be.
Spirits of such do get tired for once in a while, the book by all means of accident, falls off the shelf and allows its pages to run freely, losing all means of order , stopping at a certain chapter where it couldnt bore to remain at. Just plain tired
I just somehow feel rather sorry for myself , not knowing what the last page , if any would be like. Now, that books lies in a corner where I would constantly look over my back and then turn back to wonder if I ever knew what it really was about.
I wish, at times like these. I would find the effort and time to pick the book up , just not any other, again.
Please don't change, please don't break
The only thing that seems to work at all is you
Please don't change, at all from me
To you, and you to me
Labels: again, Feelings revisited
¶ 6:40 AM
