like alex garland said in his book (remember leonardo di caprio in the movie?), paradise isn't a place. it's a moment. it's a moment in time when everything is just

right.

and it's all the more perfect because it's so fleeting, so transitory. like catching sunlight with your hands.

just that moment when you and someone look at each other, and for no reason at all, start laughing. sincerely. with nothing weighing your mind, and nothing lying behind the sound of your laughter.

and it carries over, just for a little while, the feeling of that sudden laughter, lifting you light as air, lazy as a cloud, and it will still feel good. but by then, you've already given back the white feathered wings.

i hadn't realized what kind of seven idiots i had been to make up this kind of schedule:

Monday: 9:45 AM-8:20 PM in school
Tuesday: 9:00 AM-5:00 PM internship
Wednesday: 9:00 AM-8:20 PM internship and in school
Thursday: 9:45 AM-11:00 AM in school
Friday: 9:00 AM-5:00 PM internship
Saturday: (time varies) work
Sunday: (time varies) work

i should stop bitching, though. i'm tired of hearing myself tell people that i was stupid to make up this schedule:

Monday: 9:45 AM-8:20 PM in school
Tuesday: 9:00 AM-5:00 PM internship
Wednesday: 9:00 AM-8:20 PM internship and in school
Thursday: 9:45 AM-11:00 AM in school
Friday: 9:00 AM-5:00 PM internship
Saturday: (time varies) work
Sunday: (time varies) work

why the fuck should they care? it's not as if i'm the first person in the world who has this kind of schedule:

Monday: 9:45 AM-8:20 PM in school
Tuesday: 9:00 AM-5:00 PM internship
Wednesday: 9:00 AM-8:20 PM internship and in school
Thursday: 9:45 AM-11:00 AM in school
Friday: 9:00 AM-5:00 PM internship
Saturday: (time varies) work
Sunday: (time varies) work

so if i were other people reading this, i'd say, "CHANGE YOUR FREAKING' SCHEDULE, THEN! WALK AWAY. DROP EVERYTHING AND WAKE UP FROM THE DREAM."

Monday:
Tuesday:
Wednesday:
Thursday:
Friday:
Saturday:
Sunday:

i'm reading my work this coming wednesday. as in a stage. as in with spotlight. as in with people i don't know.

put your ear close to my bellybutton and maybe you'll hear the faint echo of butterfly wings

there was this one dollar book that i picked up from the strand, one day while fip and i went to the city to watch some movie in the east village, and while it was not an exceptional book, it was interesting. a character in the book said that "damaged people are always so beautiful."

i've never actually come close to being damaged. i've had a charmed life. i don't go through the shit that my friends tell me they've been through (and i tell you, my friends do have interesting stories). i wouldn't be able to put my life in a song, because i've been really, really lucky. i used to think this is why i want to go into social work, to give back; then again, i've found that i am, after all, human. my motives is probably not purely humane, or not pure, period.

i could, after all, be just in a grip of a messianic complex, wanting to save the world, wanting to be the good guy, wanting to be righteous, when really, all i am is mediocre wretch (i don't even think i could be greatly villainous...i'm a small-timer, always will be), because i might just want to carve my name in history and distinguish myself in an age of anonymity.

milan kundera once wrote that metaphors are dangerous, that a single metaphor can give birth to love.

a single metaphor can give birth to love.

if i fear the words of my friend the other night, fear them in the way that i am left defenseless when i think of it at 3 AM and there is no comfort in the shadows, and all that i am afraid of seem so much bigger, then mayhap i could bring to mind what milan kundera wrote.

and think that when i have loved, i have loved in images, in still lifes that include the scents and the feel of that time, as well, freezing the entire moment, i suppose. and i remember him, not in his childishness, but in the feeling of his arm around my waist and the weight of his head on my shoulder, as he slowly exhaled into my skin, whispering, whispering...

i don't know if what my friend said was true (that he is not it), but leave him in my life a little longer, lord. please.

it's always difficult writing when what you are writing pertains to very many complicated issues, most complicated of all love. who was it who said that the most treacherous maze of all is the human heart?

is it possible to just build love? or is it something that should happen like a force of nature? something that sweeps you away and leaves you haunted forever.

is romantic love neccessarily...threatening? a person closest to you should be able to hurt you the most, weilding the knife, as it were, so much more conveniently. in that way, all love is threatening, but in this particular case, should love mean that...

i don't know...i don't know.

i'm too tired. i'm too tired. please.

in the space of one month, i tried using this blog thingy here in MySpace, and decided there was something ultimately ghoulish about baring your day, your secrets, your dirt in the internet. But, glory be to god's creation, man is nothing if not egotistical and so i find myself writing what i write in my little notebook here in MySpace Blog...

how cheesy can you get?

because, the way i figure it. nobody's really going to read this shit (except for the occassional psycho and the occassional friend who is briefly wondering where the hell i've disappeared to), so might as well just put it up here.

not that i will say many things here. even with the knowledge that few will read this, and those who do will be the ones who matter to me, i'll edit myself. i claimed once (and i'll suppose i'll say this again one day) that my greatest tragedy is my hypocrisy (fucking activist who reaps from the fucking system she loathes), and see, this will be why i won't be able to look at a mirror for long, why i won't survive a fight against my doppleganger, why i won't write much about what happens in my life...

examining too close the murky waters of my soul scares the living crap out of me. there are things about my hidden depths that i would rather stay hidden (i think i stole that from Terry Pratchett).

...a good deterrent to perfidious acts. how i hate myself. this is the simple story from beginning to end. two bestfriends. girl. she meets one of them, is drawn to him, but minds her own merry way (little knowing that they have crossed paths several times, and he has remembered her at the oddest times but cast it back to the darkness in the well of his mind). she meets the other. they talk and eat frequently with each other having common interests and by pure chance having adjacent classes one sem. they slowly, gradually, tacitly announce to the world their togetherness. meanwhile, first One falls in love with a charming girl but their story falls prey to tragedy and he draws away from all of his friends, even his best friend. girl talks to him to draw him back because Other is hurt by One's deliberate absence. girl and One become friends. when girl moves to another shore, she finds, with quite justified self-loathing, that she thinks of one as much as the other. a lot happens. for reasons other than One, girl breaks with Other. but she and One are still friends who talk a lot. and slowly, gradually, tacitly, they find out what they mean to each other. but nothing is done and nothing will ever be done. nothing will ever be said, for there is nothing to say. self-loathing is a good deterrent. mirror, mirror on the wall.. who is the most traitorous of them all

i told a co-worker of mine once that i thought starbuck's was a place for waiting waiting for someone waiting for your drink waiting for the bathroom to be vacant ... but, well, i guess even though we seem to think that our own lives are busy things, hectic and frenetic; we're just fooling ourselves with this chicanery, like chickens running around without their heads on. we're moving around a lot, but there's no sense to what we're doing. really, we're all just waiting: waiting for the bus waiting for summer waiting for your favorite t.v. show ... waiting and waiting and waiting to move out of your parent's house to get that big break to meet the someone who makes you both happy and miserable; whom you can't bear to live without and whom you can't bear, period; who will intertwine with your life so tightly so that you will never have to fear the condition to that which we all born to and was our curse: being alone ... it's terrible. to wait all the time, to be so expectant all the time...

stephen king once wrote a fairytale...a very good one called the eyes of a dragon. and in the end, he doesn't say they lived happily ever after, he flatly states that "they did not." But then if you read further, you'd find that hope is never far from his last words: "No one ever does, in spite of what the stories may say. They had their good days, as you do, and they had their bad days and you know about those. They had their victories, as you do, and they had their defeats, and you know about those, too. There were times when they felt ashamed of themseves, knowing that they had not done their best, and there were times when they knew they had stood where their God had meant them to stand. All I'm trying to say is that they lived as well as they could, each and every one of them." and isn't that what matters, really? that you lived as well as you could...no one could ask for more than that. i pray every night that i will have the strength to live so well as that