Youngest kid of six with an inferiority and black sheep complex, but determined that God saves not just his soul to heaven but the remainder of his manic-depressive life, so others won't say he became a Christian and remained a jerk.
i won't be transparent before i'm opaque. and you'll get to know me starting from the small things: who my favourite bands are. what kind of movies i like. who are my heroes.
I’m convinced that when confronted with sincere, real love, the Jesus factor will become obvious. But let’s not plant the cross before we carry it. I’m not trying to con you.
Some dreams are meant to be achieved. I know that. But maybe other dreams are meant to drive us, privately. Never known to anyone but ourselves.
It is a sadness that, when choosing between crying and sighing, will choose sighing. I'd almost say that melancholy is being sad about sadness itself.
On memory and nostalgia
It saddens me when life moves forward and people decide that certain things are worth forgetting.
I've learnt that the word irregardless is filed as a non-standard word in the English language. That's a lexicographer's way of saying it's not a real word.
Crowds are fickle things. So when we stand in the thousands and cry against the present government, do we know who we're actually crying for?
People always want the best for themselves. But I want to sometimes take second or third or fourth best, just so that the loser down the road doesn't always have to come in last. It must feel like shit to always come in last.
On growing old
Leasehold property make me feel sad. It doesn't matter how old the family photos are that you put on your wall. It's your family but it's not really your wall.
I ask you, if God loves everyone, and if God is also incapable of loving evil, how can there be such a thing as an evil man?
On a daily basis
One line quips, like this.
Friday, December 07, 2007
CONCERNING A BAD DREAM ON INDIAN MYSTICS AND A DISMEMBERED HEAD
I was in a room, a common room, and there were lots of people, sitting rows of tables. everyone was happy, and they were talking, and it was noisy. and then, it all fell quiet. an uneasy silence struck the room. an indian mystic had walked in. he was tall, wearing what must have been a grey/blue robe, though i didn't see his face. he was carrying a dismembered head.
as he walked from table to table, i knew the people were afraid of him. this wasn't the first time he'd made an entry, i could tell. behind the mystic were two other subordinates, who followed him wherever he went and chanted and performed rituals. the mystic went to the tables and put the dismembered head down, and did his rites. the people were afraid of it. nobody dared to leave.
i was there with ernest. the mystic reached my table and started performing his rites with the head in front of us. i remember ernest looking up at the mystic and begging him not to do it. i remember standing up, stretching my hand out and praying.
i prayed until i woke up and found myself really praying in real life.
i've been having disturbing, occultic dreams recently. it's starting to get a bit worrying. looks like i gotta keep being guarded.
9:54 am ]