Each and every moment of your life that is worth remembering is a piece of the mosaic that shapes you to be who you are.
The question is this: Are you are a rich tapestry of hues, or are you merely different shades of the same color?
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
Archives for posts with tag: thoughts
A gathering with some old friends at Sal’s yesterday, one in which we had a cook-out and a Guitar Hero jamming session (my first, I must admit), got me thinking once again about how unhappy I have been about a particular aspect of my life for many years.
Being there, a humble home on the second floor of a row of dilapidated shophouses, reminded me how much I desperately yearn for a place I can call my own. It is hard to do great things, let alone think of doing great things, when I do not have a sandbox of my own to play in, when I do not have a shelter where I can take refuge from all the noise and hubbub around me and let my imagination can soar. A place where I, a loner at heart, can be alone.
Accomodation arrangements at present is one that is inconvenient, to say the least. That I feel I can’t even so much as stretch my legs without raising the ire of someone else or, conversely, that the presence of others in the same household disrupts my workflow is a clear indicator that it is about damn time I need to do something about it. I need to stake a place of my own in this world, figuratively and literally, a place that may not even be in this country.
A roof of my own, rented or bought regardless, requires a great deal of money. I am hardly in the position to achieve the latter, so I will have to settle for renting for now. To achieve that as a freelancer requires a solid financial bedrock I have to build one stone at a time, a task I find to be a monumental one to undertake especially at a time when I have seen gross profit plunge in the short span of three years to a quarter of a near six-figure, good money that I, admittedly, had in the vigors of youth carelessly managed. Filing my tax returns last night was the kick in the head I needed.
Maintaining the policy of saving and not spending is the one thing that I care about this year as I strive towards the goal of having a roof of my own. In doing so, I’ll be sacrificing indulgences such as vacationing and dating and fancy wining and dining and late-night partying, the latter of which I had long ago concluded to be largely meaningless, the temporal high they give transient at best.
At this point, when I am constantly worrying about when the next paying gig will come, I can care less about having no social life or tending to relationships. Because, when I am unhappy at such a fundamental level, everything else is secondary, niggardly and selfish as it may sound.
你说把爱渐渐放下会走更远
或许命运的签只让我们遇见
只让我们相恋这一季的秋天
飘落後才发现：这幸福的碎片，要我怎麼捡?
It hit me for the first time like a ton of bricks that the last line could allude to snow in winter, especially in the context of autumn two lines before.
Vincent Fang is a god.
Are the streets the same, made of the same slabs of granite, on which strangers quietly hurry by, their faces hidden and blurry? Are the footsteps of the people there the same, the weight of their private worlds, of unsaid emotional violence and blanketed by the stench of decaying dreams, shackling every step they take?
Does the wind caress like this, an infinite scroll of silk that teases my lips and cheeks the same way yours, on mine, do? Do the street lamps, of white and orange and red and blue, grow defiantly stronger the way they do now as the sky loses its temperament, into pools of clarity that illuminate the void in my heart where you once occupied, and only serve to remind me of my loss?
I may know if I go. If you find yourself there, ask them for me. Then, as you stand at that teeming crossing, whisper the answers into the wind so I may know.
But will you not lie to me and assure me that they are, that they would be different only if I saw them through your eyes?
“My aim this year is to pack on five kilograms.”
“Why?”
So I can go out and literally pick fights.
… Okay, make that ten kilograms. I can afford that.
“So this is it.”
I wished it weren’t so.
At some point, you just have to concede the fight, that best intentions can only go so far for those who refuse to self-reflect.
About
34, male and very Cancerian. Often irascible, even if he is prescient to his emotions. Lives for the resonance of beautiful passages, cinematic magic and aural bliss. Dabbles in fiction writing, photography, sketching and daydreaming in his free time, even though he is paid to do just those in a professional capacity.
He is, in other words, quite a geek.
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