The Pursuit of Capital Letters

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Sylvia Plath

I couldn't quite get this poem out of my head for a couple of weeks. Neither could I stop listening to this album.

就決定了　我們要用微笑面對 就算惡夢包圍整個世界 請別走開　愛一直在 你身邊 I know :)

Tumblr is slowly, and surely, winning me over bit by bit. But. I really cannot bear to leave this journal that I have spent four years filling up with adolescent angst and hormonal obsessions. Maybe two months later, when I have got the energy to start living again, I will be back. For now, what I need is effortless and clickofthebutton convenience: portable morsels of knowledge, wisdom-on-the-go, sparse quotes to keep the soul nourished and adequately fed. Do I sound depressed? I hope not; it is just that I have no inclination to spend energy on life anymore. The sullen songs, the technicolour dreamscapes, the dances of plastic bags in the wind- they have conditioned me to envisioning a life that is simple and pure. It should be decorated with timed coincidences and serendipity and the goodness of human nature. But no, I'm not jaded; damn, I hate that word. Eventually, this, too, shall pass so till another better time.

"So that’s how we live our lives. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that’s stolen from us—that’s snatched right out of our hands—even if we are left completely changed, with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this way, in silence. We draw ever nearer to the end of our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness." - Haruki Murakami