Most convictions are made up of easy assumptions.
Lazy perhaps but not timeless.
The safety and assurance of having a belief system lasts only whilst the doors stay closed.
Reality and experience move in to muddle everything up.
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For all the cribbing he does when shortchanged for time, Man is really designed to be occupied.
Leisure is an addictive toxin that doesn't even grant the mercy of stupor whilst sucking the life right out.
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I have a thing for people who love language. Who enjoy it's dynamic nature rather than bemoan the loss of some perceived sanctity. Who believe that it can be used for a lot more than serving just straight laced communication.
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Where there is no exaggeration there is no love, and where there is no love there is no understanding. It is only about things that do not interest one, that one can give a really unbiased opinion; and this is no doubt the reason why an unbiased opinion is always valueless.
—Oscar Wilde, Speaker, 1890
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
I was convinced...
Theory is convenient. Words are easy.
Philosophy is easy and so are expectations.
It’s the living-up-to, that is so darn hard.
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I want to want it as badly as I did yesterday.
In despair I watch the sands run through my fingers.
Can’t bring myself to label it fleeting.
This sense of betrayal, I don't know what to make of it.
I am both, the victim and the inflictor.
Philosophy is easy and so are expectations.
It’s the living-up-to, that is so darn hard.
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I want to want it as badly as I did yesterday.
In despair I watch the sands run through my fingers.
Can’t bring myself to label it fleeting.
This sense of betrayal, I don't know what to make of it.
I am both, the victim and the inflictor.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Up there and In transit
I see someone up there laughing at a bewildered-at-myself me and going -'Must have been careful about what you wished for'.
I look on dazed and fazed like a lost puppy.
Almost enough to justify self-pity.
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Ever in search of, ever striving and never quite reaching.
Pathetic low lives we are - ever stuck in the transit terminal.
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If you cannot worship the ideal, how can you love the process?
How can you feel the pain of that struggle bob in your veins?
I look on dazed and fazed like a lost puppy.
Almost enough to justify self-pity.
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Ever in search of, ever striving and never quite reaching.
Pathetic low lives we are - ever stuck in the transit terminal.
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If you cannot worship the ideal, how can you love the process?
How can you feel the pain of that struggle bob in your veins?
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