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| I said, Hell is so close and Heaven's out of reach Okay I just realised this place's been stagnating, I promise I'll update tomorrow with C-Africa pictures and reflections/what not! When you're moving on from where we left off and I'm starting over, where do we go from here? | | |
| Funny how I thought I'd be happier coming back at the start; funny how I grew to get used/love(?) Africa gradually, funny how I thought I was ready to come back, funny how I cried the moment I got back. Sometimes our minds work in strange ways, and its weird that I have so many thoughts running through my head now and yet I can't put a single one down in words, coherently. Okay maybe I'll try so C-Africa'08 was an experience. That's all, and right now if anyone tells me they are screwed for blocks, all the deserve is a big slap across their face. Unless they've been to Africa too for the past 17 days and like me, have chem bio math econs to study for in their entirety. I'm sorry if I don't sound like me, right now I feel like I left (too much) of me in Africa. | | |
| Back to the street, down to our feet
Losing the feeling of feeling unique So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days you can hear their chorus rushing past: IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon’tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeofglassI’veneverlovedanyoneIthinkofmyselfasfunnyForgive me… There was a time when it wasn’t uncommon to use a piece of string to guide words that otherwise might falter on the way to their destinations. Shy people carried a little bundle of string in their pockets, but people considered loudmouths had no less need for it, since those used to being overheard by everyone were often at a loss for how to make themselves heard by someone. The physical distance between two people using a string was often small; sometimes the smaller the distance, the greater the need for the string. The practice of attaching cups to the ends of the string came much later. Some say it is related to the irrepressible urge to press shells to our ears, to hear the still-surviving echo of the world’s first expression. Others say it was started by a man who held the end of a string that was unraveled across the ocean by a girl who left for America. When the world grew bigger, and there wasn’t enough string to keep the things people wanted to say from disappearing into the vastness, the telephone was invented. Sometimes no length of string is long enough to say the thing that needs to be said. In such cases all the string can do, in whatever its form, is conduct a person’s silence. | | |
| Sometimes it feels like yesterday and sometimes it feels like someone else's memory Trust is a fragile thing. Once earned, it affords us tremendous freedom. But once trust is lost, it can be impossible to recover. Of course the truth is we never know who we can trust. Those we're closest to can turn around and betray us, and total stranges can come to our rescue. In the end, most people decide to trust only themselves. It really is the simplest way to keep from getting burned. But you know what? There are a people I trust even though it eludes me why. Maybe its the blind faith I'm putting in them in hopes that I'm right; or maybe its because they've entrusted me with a part of them and I somehow feel like I have to reciprocate. There are a thousand maybes; a thousand reasons why. I spend a lot of time looking for reasons and answers, but you just can't find what's not there. | | |
| Cos all of the stars have faded away
Just try not to worry, you'll see them someday Okay after wallowing in self-pity for like a few hours just now, I felt better so I went to eat haha then I threw up again then I went to read The Road by Cormac McCarthy again. It's a brilliant book, it really is. - He mistrusted all of that. He said the right dreams for a man in peril were dreams of peril and all else was the call of languor and of death. He slept little and he slept poorly. He dreamt of walking in a flowering wood where birds flew before them he and the child and the sky was aching blue but he was learning how to wake himself from just such siren worlds. Lying there in the dark with the uncanny taste of a peach from some phantom orchard fading in his mouth. He thought if he lived long enough the world at last would all be lost. Like the dying world the newly blind inhabit, all of it slowly fading from memory. The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all. | | |
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