Upon our heads are the invisible bowls, boxes, buckets. Kept hidden, unseen, the veil continually changing in colour. The burden, or the challenge, to always stand upright. The battle, or the abandonment, to perpetually appeal to somebody's eyes. To withhold the unnecessary, to relay the absolute truth.
To suppress the selfish compulsion, to learn to be content.
When questions arise, defeat them. Or else, let them be. Maybe one day you'll hear a click! in your head, and, suddenly, you'll know what to do, where to go, and who to be.
As I recall, in the words of that certain peculiar fellow, there is something astonishingly romantic indeed about dying a believer.
I was a believer, may still be a believer, and may or may not remain a believer.
In any event, bless the believers, and those who do not believe. On the other hand, curse the headless, and save the heartless, please, for I might be the latter, and a hopeless romantic.
There must be at least one moment in a year, a month, a day, when you feel as if the world revolves around you. In another moment in the year, the month, the day, you'd feel tiny, insignificant, vulnerable, and bare.
When either thought overpowers, close your eyes, and drown yourself in nothingness.
When what was once your absolute surrealism becomes more and more realistic by the moment, what kinds of thoughts haunt you? It’s like a sudden shower pouring over your head when you were outside staring at a city’s skyline on a cold day.
Would you walk away and take shelter, or would you take a deep breath and keep walking?
Some things are often made, but never conveyed.
All the letters in my drawer is proof. All the words in my notebook is proof. All the thoughts I have in mind is proof.
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