random thoughts on a sunday afternoon:
every time i read Tsin Yen's poetry she moves me to tears. somehow she lives her life on the outside of her skin, she opens herself to joy and pain in a way that i'm not quite sure i know how. and expresses it, in her own inimical fashion, in the words and phrases and in the language that i wish i had command of. -sigh- so i'm sitting here in the Reg desperately trying not to cry in public and annoy the woman sitting across the way from me any more. she keeps turning ard and glaring at me for making noise, because i sometimes can't help but laugh aloud at something you have said, because i forget that i am here in the library, and only imagine that you are with me in person.
i know what it is. partly. she writes in soundbits, as she points out -- and her soundbits are precise, and accurate, and insightful. there's no empty space in her writing, no wasted breath in her language. it's beautiful. she writes now of heartbreak, and my heart breaks along with hers, even though right now i am as far from heartbreak as i can be, i am happier than i have been in a long time. =)
i think maybe today's a time for reflection and a sort of aware sadness - maybe it's the weather: it's raining yet again, it's been drippy all weekend; and maybe it's the loneliness of being by myself in hyde park without my usual props, and my friends all at home, far away from me. rachel has just reminded me that this is 'our last summer together'; that after this year a whole bunch of the friends i have gathered around me over the last two years will graduate and scatter to the winds, and we will never be together like this again. it will be weird for me to be at college without paul and eric and rachel and sean and hanyann around as well.
college shd be a time for reading and writing and thinking, a space for reflection and breathing and expansion? a "slow motion explosion of love"? i wish i could, i wish i could sink myself into a mass of books, sit curled up in my armchair in my room as the rain paints rivers on my windows, and just read and read and read, and drown in the deluge of words -- and once more write like i used to. to make the words seep into my skin, into my blood, and come out fresh and new and meaningful from my fingertips. but my fingers are mute, and the words are trapped inside, hiding behind my eyes and in the back of my brain.
without you one night alone
is like a year without you baby
do you have a heart of stone
without you, can't stop the hurt inside
when love and hate collide
i'm unhappy with the format of this blog. it's time to explore options elsewhere.