It is 2 am, I am staring out the window, soft music, everyone else asleep.
In some ways, very little has changed. My room has remained more or less the same, my shelves still filled with the books from ten years ago, furniture unchanged. Perhaps I am actually dead, and my room has been left untouched for my memory. But I doubt it.
More and more I find the need to live. To care less, but to live more. To live boldly, cheerfully, recklessly, passionately. To be generous, to be selfish.
To dismantle the expectations I had, my old dreams, and put up new ones. Not dreams to be happy, not dreams of what I want, because those dreams will ultimately disappoint, but dreams that somewhere in the distance, the shore will meet the sea, by which these trappings are shed.
Meanwhile, with that thought, I can be cheerful. Against the distance between here and the horizon, I can measure all else by their true diminutiveness.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Sunday, July 14, 2013
学会放好以前的渴望
Inevitably, they are eroded away. The once-pristine images constructed by the light, dancing fingers of naivete stilled upon the startling onset of awareness, and now they wear away, deadened figures standing in the deepening tide.
The dreams that carve the features, the happy reverie that furnish the details, the whims that colour and fill, the stars illuminated in eyes, the grand and the silly, such that they are perfect but attainable, improbable, but not beyond the limits of young hopefulness; these are the images that used to stand against the horizon, aglow in the belief in a benevolent fate.
But slowly, dim, darken, like grass shadows rise and sway and eddy about their feet. Gloom yawns and stretches, languid, soft, unthreatening, up to their knees, their waist.
Pieces break away, falling, vanishing, soundlessly. Cracks stab through them. The cold sets in, welling up in weaknesses, driving deep, wrenching apart, widening.
Their silhouettes blur, become indistinct, edges dissolve, the shade settling in, filling them; acceptance, resignation sinking, the ponderous eclipse, on the verge of completion. And now, now, all of a sudden now, they are no longer, not even the remnants of the images; no, they have fully inhaled the tide, becoming now the coagulated vapours of the night. But they remain in the horizon, perversions of our expectations, enshrouded in the severe authority of reality, brought into our hearts, welcome our masters.
The dreams that carve the features, the happy reverie that furnish the details, the whims that colour and fill, the stars illuminated in eyes, the grand and the silly, such that they are perfect but attainable, improbable, but not beyond the limits of young hopefulness; these are the images that used to stand against the horizon, aglow in the belief in a benevolent fate.
But slowly, dim, darken, like grass shadows rise and sway and eddy about their feet. Gloom yawns and stretches, languid, soft, unthreatening, up to their knees, their waist.
Pieces break away, falling, vanishing, soundlessly. Cracks stab through them. The cold sets in, welling up in weaknesses, driving deep, wrenching apart, widening.
Their silhouettes blur, become indistinct, edges dissolve, the shade settling in, filling them; acceptance, resignation sinking, the ponderous eclipse, on the verge of completion. And now, now, all of a sudden now, they are no longer, not even the remnants of the images; no, they have fully inhaled the tide, becoming now the coagulated vapours of the night. But they remain in the horizon, perversions of our expectations, enshrouded in the severe authority of reality, brought into our hearts, welcome our masters.