À la recherche du temps perdu

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Month: September, 2010

great expectations

The ironic part is, I can only be happy when I do not hope for it. When I feel almost hopeless, expecting to meet with disappointment after disappointment, and have given myself up to fate without the slightest struggle, there happiness evolves, catching me off guard. And I know I cannot ask for anything more, because the moment I start to hope again, I will once again be disappointed. And so I accept this sudden undeserved happiness silently, savouring its unexpected sweetness, fearing it should disappear once I begin to hope again. They all say no pain no gain; yet the opposite holds more truth for me. The more painful you strive for something, the more disappointment you gain. And this is how I come to realize that all my great expectations are never great enough to compensate for all those miserable longings, and that great happiness only comes when there is no expectation at all. And so I dry my tears and tell myself not to think anymore, of all the things that I desire so much, since all these sufferings have already diminished all the value that is in them. That happiness will come to me when I least expect it. That it will come to me freely, without demanding even a single drop of tear from me.


the importance of being earnest

They marvel at the frankness in my words. But I have not been totally honest. I have hidden the fact that what made me so miserable was the thought of some person. It makes me sad to think of some person, knowing that I can only keep this secret to myself, till the day I no longer think of this person, and this person shall never learn about any of it. Because I know all too well, that nothing is going to change even if I am honest about my earnestness. Worse still, such earnestness might bring contempt instead of sympathy. The same thing has happened too many times for me to imagine otherwise. Love makes one feel so humble and pathetic, and a love that is humble and pathetic is not desired by anyone. Therefore I ask only to be allowed this privilege to be sad. Accuse me not for suffering for a meaningless love. Blame me not for my desperate and shameless hopes for love. Tell me not that I possess all the good things on earth and that being sad among all these blessings is a sin. Sometimes I look at the loving couples on the street, and I envy them for possessing something that I do not. The talent of loving and being loved in return.



最近我終於發覺原來我有一個問題,就是我的熱情不能持久。曾經非常重要的人或事,在過度燃燒之後,會消滅殆盡,或對之變得厭倦,甚至完全被流放到潛意識的最最底層,那間小房子裡的夾萬裡給鎖上的記憶,彷彿從未發生。偶然一刻的dejavu,往往讓我吃一驚,一是自己竟能為如此的人或事抱有這麼強烈的情感,二是這麼強烈的情感竟也可以被我忘個清光,自己竟然是這麼一個薄情的人,連自己的感情和承諾也可以一而再地背棄,而每一次我都曾經真心相信過那情感會直至永遠的。或者如果我的情感一開始並不是那麼熱烈,那麼沉重而痛苦,可能還不致於那麼轟烈的死亡。這讓我想起Twelfth Night裡Duke Orsino的第一段台辭:

If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.




In terrible shit.

Once again I let myself fall into this state of chaos and I hate myself for it. It stripped off all my productivity when I should have accomplished a lot. I had thought my sensitivity is gradually vanishing along with age, now that I cannot write as often and as freely as I used to, I had even mourned its loss, but now I realize that perhaps I am the same piece of over-sensitive shit and that in fact most of my energy has been channeled to creative activities other than writing, and that I am still, unfortunately, able to fall into such melancholic-chaotic shit of a state. I find myself crying over my musings, my writings, any random song, blaming those who made me suffer, hating myself for blaming them, and infuriated at the fact that there is no one to blame but myself, because it is solely my own weakness that I am so unhappy. Some said I exerted too much control, some said I had not stayed firm enough. I tried reason, and I tried abandoning myself to my feelings, none seemed to work. Once again I have to accept the fact that I am only fit for sorrow, of all the beauties in life. And then when the next day breaks, I will pretend to the world again that life for me is indeed happy, pretty, and ever fulfilling.

Bright Star

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.

Bright star, would my love be steadfast as thou art.



來又如風 離又如風











但我不過 是人非夢
總有些真笑 亦有真痛