In between Dreams

Somewhere over the cloud;

somewhere under the tree;

somewhere around the house;

somewhere between the dream.

There must be something quite indefinite.

No matter how desperately I try, I still couldn't see.

It's said when thing gets hazy, it's called beauty.

While I say when dream gets realistic, it's called unreality.

Closeness, remoteness;

distance can be preciousness.

Playground

When I was not that civilized, or not that "well-educated" and sophisticated, my mind was unlimited. It was around the time when I was at elementary school, everything could be possible as long as my mind was awake. While I was asleep, well, nothing was impossible, much wilder, more fanciful. This born ability gave me the reason why I could fool around all day long without doing things and still not be tired of the silence, and the isolation. Beside myself, the creativity was my best friend, teaching me how to paint, how to sing, how to dance, how to smile, and how to play. She was with me all the time wherever I went. Even though I turned in, she helped me build me dreams, led the way I thought about everything. She created what I loved, and what I needed.

Who didn't have this kind of friend when being kids? Everyone did. But when we grew up, she vaguely disappeared. Like the boiling water evaporating, like the street lights getting dimmed, she seldom came back, will probably never return. And then we need other stuff to take over her place. We desperately search for any friendships, relationships, indulgence, luxuries, pleasures, and sin. Most of people will find their jouneys totally in vain and upset. Swimming through the ocean, running through the desert, it ends up yourself but nothing. Our creativity was killed, was murdered. Our minds were no more in harmony. Instead, there were hollow, emptiness, vacancy, and weakness.

We turn to be law-abiding citizens, moral saints, and decent men, but we forgot how to be kids that we were born to be, that we used to be.

Je ne vais pas bien.

God, I hate this feeling. There is nowhere left to hide in. That kind of thought just keeps haunting my mind day by day. I hate those tricky games which some players are good at. I can't even tell the truth from lies. The worries, I guess, are coming from the terrible thought that I would probably fail for no experience. There's a first for everything, isn't it? I'm not really sure what I'm afraid of. Is it the person who I'm dealing with? Or the situation that I have been involved in? There is always a voice which I have no idea where it comes from, maybe from the other part of me or something, talking me into giving a shot. But it turns out that I don't have the guts to buy me a front seat to unveil the curtain in front of me. Could it be worse if I show my true feeling? Or have I already been getting too far?

I hate the suffering between expectation and disappointment.

I hate the difference between this and that.

I hate everything so vulnerable when it comes to this complicated sentiment.

I hate it.

Liebesbrief

Sometimes, I like being surrounded; surrounded by people, voices, and smells.

Like the pond where fish belong to;

like the canvas where water painting stuck to;

Sometimes, I like being in a crowd.

Everything happening around is all unexpected;

each eye contact, each smile and each touch will never repeat.

Other times, I like being alone.

I'm the captain of my soul.

Each detail is under my control.

I manipulate the rules.

There are still a few of times when the crowds are too crowded, when the soul is too lonely.

Hollow stuffs up my mind whenever my room is empty.

Emptiness knocks down my life whenever my room is hollow.

There's nothing better than happiness, which consists of a girl called "me," and a guy called "you."

Still, each eye contact, each smile, and each touch are unexpected.

You are now the pond, the canvas, the voice that I'm addicted to.

Any of them will neither replay nor fade away.

Because you are exactly where I belong to.

Fur

I think everything just has its own wrapping paper all over itself. A book has its book cover, sometimes, made of paperback, other times, made of cardboard. An album has its record sleeve, too. How do kids differentiate tigers from lions? By its fur color of course. A proverb goes that, don't judge a book by its cover. Well, it's just not so true. We have to admit that we always do the same thing, judging a book by its cover. We take a certain group of books from shelf which attract our attention by its covers. We see thousands of things passing by in our daily lives. Most of them will automatically fade away, while things that stay rooted in our minds are the so-called "taste." It's instinct. When you know, you know.

Some people care about what they wear and how they dress up. They define themselves by clothes, pants, and accessories. They also define others by their color, their fur. I took a two-line note from the movie, Confession of a Shopaholic. "It completely defines you," and "Underwear is a basic human right." The reason why I found the second one quite interesting is because that even when someone is nearly stripped, the last thing they will desperately keep is underwear. And that's also the last thing they will ask for. What a metaphor!

Clothes was for protection in the first beginning. And now, it's for impression, occasion, and definition.

Success sseccuS

I've taken dancing classes this summer break for almost two months. Even though I wasn't quite involved in it during the first month, I found myself bathed deeply into those moves in the second month. My mind was almost carried away by all those dancing skills. Every time I went home by MRT, I can't help moving every parts of my body to rhythm with beats from the reflection of every mirror. And I found myself improving much more than the last three or four months.

This morning I read an article on the New York Times, which was entitled "Sweating Your Way to Success." It's related that how success would be achieved not because of innate ability but because of dedicated practice. I know this sounds really old-fashioned. People are already sick of this kind of preach. But it's just so true that I could totally understand by the dedication I paid during my summer break.

You will never imagine how frustrating it is to watch teachers stretching their limbs with beauty and I just act like a total idiot. But, anyway, I overcome it! Mostly we are all haunted by the "talent" myth. Too many of us think those excellent tennis players just get what they deserve because they are born champions, whereas they have just simply practiced for longer and more intensely than others. Success in most arenas of life is not a reflection of innate skills but rather devoted effort.

Wow, it's been a while for me to be so positive as hell!