| jeudi, mars 22 |
| You th...(22/3) |
| I am thinking why I have yet become a well-known writer or an artist. Because I am too lazy, and also because that I am not writing and creating for the audience, or for the market. In simple words, lack of protocol. I write for myself. I talk to myself. Never has the hardworking exercise to write with protocol been flown from my hand. This is no link of my thinking and my work to neither the world of acceptance nor the world of expectation. This is a major dilemma. When I was having the supper tonight, I recognize the seven months to go, and then, it is another milestone or what I regard as a definition of the line of separation. Journeys after journeys and the non-stop displacement turn me old. It is not the duplication of age or numbering but the cycle of repetition acts as the catalyst of growth to speed up the process of obsolete wonders and deteriorating sensitivity to changes and judgment. This is a horrible change of life form to me. I immerse to the intensified repetition of similar experience in physical consciousness. Sentimentally, I was forced to get used to the function mode and erase the pure innocent sense of discovery. A decade, it appears like a century. This is the result of the depreciation. In the year of double, I have given up the pencil form of expression, and the flicks of the clicks picked up my mixed feeling of puzzling. Form is only a fake mask of expression. Walking pass through a wall of obstruction, or be it a protection or a differentiation, or simply the isolation. I am staging away from the path of dream. Losing the momentum and the power to move, and the time is heavy particles in the air now. Whatever is left, it is only the dust of tomorrow. When I am conscious, I can only hide from the sorrow and pathetic past and present. They accumulate. Louder is the calling of light outside a darkened world of unknown and forgotten. The sound is low. Failing to be me, I feel sleepy always. I connect the sleeping mode to the success of a continuation of identity. Sight keeps on blurring the unseen miracle that no longer exists. Give a pass, and there is still a day after now. I recall the script of a foggy imagination. The sad thing for imagination is its unchanged lust and its static constant of virtual nothingness. Youth, the forgettable. Libellés : self, sense |
posted by zirhc @ 02:56   |
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| 2 Comments: |
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人生原本便是一個旅程,一個只可向前,沒有暫停的旅程。 也許最重要的是把它活得精彩! 切切實實地過每一天,活在當下吧! 三十而立。 若以十年為一個階段,也許三十歲開始便是人生的黃金十年。 滿心期待,迎接這美好的新一頁!
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It is time to turn the page. A few more hours to go. Are you ready?
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人生原本便是一個旅程,一個只可向前,沒有暫停的旅程。 也許最重要的是把它活得精彩! 切切實實地過每一天,活在當下吧! 三十而立。 若以十年為一個階段,也許三十歲開始便是人生的黃金十年。 滿心期待,迎接這美好的新一頁!