Saturday, May 23, 2009
♥ Saturday, May 23, 2009
Sometimes, I just want you to hold me.
No more yelling, no more screaming, no more swearing.
No more telling me that I don't understand.
I just want you.
To hold me.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
♥ Tuesday, May 19, 2009
I am slowly starting to find that I don't like beating around the bush, or playing around with fancy words as adornments of text that eventually comes down to black, white and the plain discernible truth.
Is there ever a limit to how much we are willing to give? And if there isn't, what is the price we have to pay?
What are the conditions, the strings so easily attached to each act of kindness, each minute, cent, sweat, blood; given, donated? What are the returns expected to come, both the good and the bad, to those who supposedly deserve it; where has the idea of karma come from?
Undoubtedly a humanly-assumed belief, to make life a little more 'fair', when it has never been and imaginably never will.
Perhaps it is in the nature of human itself to presume that what we give away will always come back, in one form or another, to us. Along with the thousands, hundreds, tens and ones of dollars that we transfer to and fro bank accounts, to alleged charities; there still exists a hope, a silent belief, that one day all that will come back to us in due form, albeit with the influence of time. To many this idea remains - or as Justin Timberlake puts it, What Goes Around Comes Back Around.
Yet not many with this point of view realize that this preconception has never been appraised by the dictionary. Out of thirteen definitions a three year old would first come to understand - sacrifice, commit, grant, donate, contribute, relinquish, deliver being the few - none have affiliations or connotations to the word return. Maybe if you look hard enough the antonyms would have hidden, in an effort to contort, its meaning in its own section. But as we repeal its essence we similarly nullify the sense of the four letters, the basic vocabulary of a three year old.
Since what prehistoric age has the shine in the eyes of a child surpassed that of the wrinkle lines of old men reminiscing about their summer days of Hoover carts and Cadillac cars, by the lake's only small fishing boat?
It is a simple word. There is no need, nor use, to twist around the words of the truth that prevails in society, conscience, soul, to the extent of love - the truth that sometimes one yearns purely satisfaction from the giving away of materialistic wants. The truth of the word and in all its effects, a plain understanding of the concept of the paradox "gaining the most as you lose", a simple run for autism, a small fund-raising event, a few hours on the weekends, a limited campaign for the noteworthy.
The pooled limits of 6.8 billion hearts may not encircle the universe, but it's pretty adequate for a stick-thin boy in Nigeria and the pain in his mother's eyes, not only from the hunger but also for the inability to keep alive the baby she gave life to.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
♥ Thursday, May 07, 2009
Maybe I'm just tired of listening to you, maybe I'm just tired of being strong.
How could I ever get so out of it?
