i hope my words are strange and wondrous,

like kisses that quiet all things superfluous,

so that we can all stop and

listen

about stars.

if the falling of night

is the drawing of curtains

at heaven's windows.

the stars must be streaks of

glory, of paradise

escaping the fabric of the sky.

------------------

it is nearing the end of Saturday

my day has been productive in terms of catching up on copious amounts of reading i have to do.

but it is a mere imprint in the sea of pages left to absorb and reflect on =(

i am on a drama fast.

partly because i need to read,

partly because i realize that practice is key to discipline

and mostly because i am running out of my weekly bandwidth.

hehe.

i clicked on april 2009

and read my first post on this blog,

and realize what i did was a continuation of my old blog

which i shut down,

because i was hosting it on xanga.

which is remarkably ancient in terms of technology years.

my blogging style is more varied than before.

i am less obscure, and fond of being a bit more practical

and maybe because i have more to do,

i keep my feet more or less rooted on the ground.

why am i keeping a blog?

that is a strange question,

and one that i still don't know the answer to.

i started a blog, because...

it was the in thing.

and moving to hongkong,

i needed to open a door to get me in,

especially when CAIS culture had no room

for a book-lovin, school-lovin short ugly girl.

how the times have changed.

i have always kept diaries,

since i was capable of holding a consistent habit,

journalling has been one of them

and no matter how long a respite,

i always return to my pages of words

of implied secrets

in which i perform a play to myself.

yes even in my diary,

i never told the objective truth.

because i was the protagonist,

and the story was mine.

my self-absorption is both virtue and vice.

scoring fullmarks on the intrapersonal section of my psychology analysis

was further accented by the depressing stats of the interpersonal section.

how times have changed.

i said once that i chose to step into the field of the unknown

and allow the tips of the grass to brush against my fingers.

my daily struggle is in resisting the urge

to grasp those tips by the handful and rip them violently out of the ground.

so as to plant a graft.

a graft of familiarity.

Baudelaire says that genius is merely the recovery of childhood through will.

and i wonder, unceasingly

if i will ever recover mine.