"The only dream worth having is to dream that you will live while you are alive, and die only when you are dead. To love, to be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of the life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget."

- Arundhati Roy

i forgot

the gentle words, the soothing hand. soft, sweet.
the lessons i tried to engrave , not yet inked
perspective, hope rising from ashes.
more lists and ramblings, more of yes, yes, i will and exclamat!on marks replacing full stops because there were not to be ends only surges forward.
kind

for the moment, i forget, how i feel.
that is not true. it's easy to forget when youre alone, but when you're with people again it's okay. you remember. one remembers. i remember the resolve, i dont remember how to talk anymore. i wish i remembered how i feel, it's very quiet inside. try to guess the contents of an opaque black box without shaking it around at all. toss up a few options, but we'll never know, and right and wrong are equally quiet (or loud). a banana, two paper clips, i hate you, it'll pass.

is this the ocean or a glass bowl?
...i need to know if we'll meet halfway if we set off on separate ships.

Sad Brad Smith - "Help Yourself"

what i can't put my finger on

is why everything seems to be unraveling even as i have seen and heard and breathed more consciously more profoundly than ever before. where i believed a whole, there are cracks and spaces minute, but there is also a zoom function and helplessly i'm transported into further into deeper these pockets of empty until i no longer know where i am and 'it' is no longer representative of anything because there is no means of identification.

do you see what i mean?

what i really mean to say is, i'm lost.

what i really mean to say is, i don't know why.

what i really mean to say is, i've lost the why.

what i really mean to say is, i thought i got past all this and was somewhere else all together. but this somewhere else is suspiciously looking like the there of before, the here and the then confused and merging.

maybe not having furniture and 20 boxes to unpack is affecting my sanity. or maybe pulling out dusty, old faces of love is tipping a perpetually precarious equilibrium. or maybe silence to an unreasoning need is stirring clear waters murky.

I still need to write about Rwanda. I haven't forgotten. it's still processing, still. Maybe it will be forever. but what do i know of forever?

tu me manques

c'est tout

(c'est un message prévoyant si tu peux voir l'heure, en fait c'est 21h48 et j'ai recemment retrouvé michelle et on a pris nos billets!!!!!! ^^ )

^^

Nat

come to thailand

fun fun fun

ive spent so much

but so fun

12:24pm Me

o_O

spent so much doing what??

what have you been up to !!

12:25pmNat

haircut, face treatment

karaoke

movies

and eat!!!!
-----------
aiya, so typical nat !

WASHING THE ELEPHANT

by Barbara Ras

Isn’t it always the heart that wants to wash
the elephant, begging the body to do it
with soap and water, a ladder, hands,
in tree shade big enough for the vast savannas
of your sadness, the strangler fig of your guilt,
the cratered full moon’s light fuelling
the windy spooling memory of elephant?

What if Father Quinn had said, “Of course you’ll recognize
your parents in Heaven,” instead of
“Being one with God will make your mother and father
pointless.” That was back when I was young enough
to love them absolutely though still fear for their place
in Heaven, imagining their souls like sponges full
of something resembling street water after rain

Still my mother sent me every Saturday to confess,
to wring the sins out of my small baffled soul, and I made up lies
about lying, disobeying, chewing gum in church, to offer them
as carefully as I handed over the knotted handkerchief of coins
to the grocer when my mother sent me for a loaf of Wonder,
Land of Lakes, and two Camels.

If guilt is the damage of childhood, then eros is the fall of adolescence.
Or the fall begins there, and never ends, desire after desire parading
through a lifetime like the Ringling Brothers elephants
made to walk through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel
and down Thirty-fourth Street to the Garden.
So much of our desire like their bulky, shadowy walking
after midnight, exiled from the wild and destined
for a circus with its tawdry gaudiness, its unspoken
pathos.

It takes more than half a century to figure out who they were,
the few real loves-of-your-life, and how much of the rest—
the mad breaking-heart stickiness—falls away, slowly,
unnoticed, the way you lose your taste for things
like popsicles unthinkingly.
And though dailiness may have no place
for the ones who have etched themselves in the laugh lines
and frown lines on the face that’s harder and harder
to claim as your own, often one love-of-your-life
will appear in a dream, arriving
with the weight and certitude of an elephant,
and it’s always the heart that wants to go out and wash
the huge mysteriousness of what they meant, those memories
that have only memories to feed them, and only you to keep them clean.