Sunday, February 26, 2006
In Places, Empty Spaces
I am edging on the rim of growing up.The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest of dark.
Looking closely, the twenty-hour day is framed into a moment: the still life of the jerky amphetamine world. Turn down the daily noise and at first there is the relief of silence. Then, very quietly, as quiet as light, meaning returns. Words are the part of silence that can be spoken.
I have learnt that nothing is gone, that everything can be recovered, not as it was, but in its changing form.
In fairytales, naming is knowledge and power. When I know your name, I can call your name, and when I call your name, you will come to me.
"Each person knows the extent of their own suffering, or the total absence of meaning in their lives." - Paulo Coelho, Veronika Decides to Die
Ethelinde at 10:05 pm
Friday, February 24, 2006
Tonight and the Rest of My Life
She knew instantly that he would have a profound, perhaps disturbing influence on her life. In a flash of inner perception, she realised that here was a man who did not want to settle. She was frightened . . . in this revealing moment she envisaged heartbreak, but just as swiftly determined that the heartbreak would be worth the pain.She began to sense the rollercoaster that her life with him would be, the unnerving inability to control events as she had been used to, the compartmentalisation of his life and his friends, the range of experience he had passed through that she could not share, the infinite layers of his past and the loyalties that threatened their relationship.
She was in love with him in the beginning and went on to love him. Her care for him showed enormous depths of feeling to which he responded on some levels but never enough to give up. His love had certain reservations and hers was total. She did not think he cared for her very much and she was armoured with that certainty. He was cute but there was something cold about him. It seemed to her that what he gave off was light but not heat, not warmth. And his great charm was his detachment, his seeming detachment from himself.
Ethelinde at 11:27 am
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Paint the Silence
Her words took a sharp turn. She tried to create meaning behind the words when describing the heartfelt emotion, but like with most things she found, it is incomplete, simply because it is missing certain elements, forcing her to find it elsewhere, providing meaning for the other alternatives. Sometimes she vividly saw the gaps in between the words, which could never suffice for how she felt; it could never properly express how superficial she found the pearls stringed in a sentence. Never in one place, she flitters. In vacant silence, she found no words but air."These were ultramarine days, trimmed in ermine, and the nights showed all their ten thousand stars, gleaming overhead like a proof, a calculus woven on the warp and weft of certain fundamental truths." – Janet Finch, White Oleander
Ethelinde at 3:46 pm