(no subject)
I need a catalyst, to rekindle the flame
That once burned within these fists where defeat remains
One Februrary night, we screamed our agonies
And I swear I tried to care
I tried, I tried...
We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with out previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come. There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. What happens but once might as well not have happened at all. If we only have one life to live, we might as well not have lived at all.
Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.
The dance seemed to him a declaration that her devotion, her ardent desire to satisfy his every whim, was not necessarily bound to his person, that if she hadn't met Tomas, she would have been ready to respond to the call of any other man she might have met instead. There was in the realm of possibility, an infinite number of unconsummated loves for other men.
It had taken six chance happenings to push Tomas towards Tereza, as if he had little inclination to go to her on his own. We all reject out of hand the idea that the love of our life may be something light or weightless; we presume our love is what must be, that without it our life would no longer be the same; we feel that Beethoven himself, gloomy and awe-inspiring, is playing the "It must be!" to our own great love. Tomas came to the conclusion that the love story of his life exemplified not "It must be so!" bur rather "It could just as well be otherwise!"
If love is to be unforgettable, fortuities must immediately start fluttering down to it like bird to Francis of Assisi's shoulders.
But her nascent love inflamed her sense of beauty, and she would never forget that music. Whenever she heard it, she would be touched. Everything going on around her at that moment would be haloed by the music and take on its beauty.
Who what am I? My answer: I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I’ve gone which would not have happened if I had not come. Nor am I particularly exceptional in this matter; each ‘I,’ every one of the now-six-hundred-million-plus of us, contains a similar multitude. I repeat for the last time: to understand me, you’ll have to swallow a world.
'To understand me, you'll have to swallow a world.' Or maybe your words. Either way we're up to no good, rewriting our lives way more than we should, and only loving each other cause we've never been sure that we could. You can't control our hearts. You can't console a heart that's impossible to touch and as such I've thrown out regret, yet may have thought about it a little too much. You find that setting standards is less like revision and more like preparation. So much like what we've heard and what we've seen. So far from what we want and what we mean.
That once burned within these fists where defeat remains
One Februrary night, we screamed our agonies
And I swear I tried to care
I tried, I tried...
We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with out previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come. There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. What happens but once might as well not have happened at all. If we only have one life to live, we might as well not have lived at all.
Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.
The dance seemed to him a declaration that her devotion, her ardent desire to satisfy his every whim, was not necessarily bound to his person, that if she hadn't met Tomas, she would have been ready to respond to the call of any other man she might have met instead. There was in the realm of possibility, an infinite number of unconsummated loves for other men.
It had taken six chance happenings to push Tomas towards Tereza, as if he had little inclination to go to her on his own. We all reject out of hand the idea that the love of our life may be something light or weightless; we presume our love is what must be, that without it our life would no longer be the same; we feel that Beethoven himself, gloomy and awe-inspiring, is playing the "It must be!" to our own great love. Tomas came to the conclusion that the love story of his life exemplified not "It must be so!" bur rather "It could just as well be otherwise!"
If love is to be unforgettable, fortuities must immediately start fluttering down to it like bird to Francis of Assisi's shoulders.
But her nascent love inflamed her sense of beauty, and she would never forget that music. Whenever she heard it, she would be touched. Everything going on around her at that moment would be haloed by the music and take on its beauty.
Who what am I? My answer: I am the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I’ve gone which would not have happened if I had not come. Nor am I particularly exceptional in this matter; each ‘I,’ every one of the now-six-hundred-million-plus of us, contains a similar multitude. I repeat for the last time: to understand me, you’ll have to swallow a world.
'To understand me, you'll have to swallow a world.' Or maybe your words. Either way we're up to no good, rewriting our lives way more than we should, and only loving each other cause we've never been sure that we could. You can't control our hearts. You can't console a heart that's impossible to touch and as such I've thrown out regret, yet may have thought about it a little too much. You find that setting standards is less like revision and more like preparation. So much like what we've heard and what we've seen. So far from what we want and what we mean.