the baseness of me
The knowledge which makes others wise has made
Me blind. I recognize my faults too late.
Hope lessens, yet, before desires fade,
Oh friend, dissolve my self-love and self-hate.
Michaelangelo wrote that...yes, Sistine chapel-painting, nude-guy sculpting Michaelangelo. I came across his book of sonnets in the library and couldn't stop reading each page. There is something eerily familiar with his sonnets. When I took the borrower's log card at the back to write my name...lo and behold! I had borrowed it 4 years ago! Very odd. I couldn't remember borrowing it.
I realized that my struggle to understand myself has been going on for a really long time. I'm sure at one point in your life you became curious about why you see things the way that you do...I mean literally see everything in your perspective. Why you weren't the person next to you or why you weren't from a different country...it's weird.
There is this strong surge of desire for me to feel a sense of contentment. I suppose it happens to all of us. Material things cannot fulfill my longing for true happiness...apparently, even knowledge can't cope with my inexplicable passions. I only become deaf and isolated from the world in that split-second I exchange glances with my son or husband. It is a fleeting yet profound experience that I so often forget...yet never cease to look for. Such is the irony of my incoherent self. Many times when my emotions take control, a part of me could actually objectively observe that possibility of completely detaching from sanity. It freaks me out to the core. I need to be more optimistic and not over-analyzing. There is much to be content about.
Sometimes I wish I weren't so curious. That I didn't want to know so much. That I relished each second of the present. What I feel now can't be released through an alternative outlet...it's a raw kind of feeling that I just have to put into language. Thank God for keyboards and imaginary audiences.
Me blind. I recognize my faults too late.
Hope lessens, yet, before desires fade,
Oh friend, dissolve my self-love and self-hate.
Michaelangelo wrote that...yes, Sistine chapel-painting, nude-guy sculpting Michaelangelo. I came across his book of sonnets in the library and couldn't stop reading each page. There is something eerily familiar with his sonnets. When I took the borrower's log card at the back to write my name...lo and behold! I had borrowed it 4 years ago! Very odd. I couldn't remember borrowing it.
I realized that my struggle to understand myself has been going on for a really long time. I'm sure at one point in your life you became curious about why you see things the way that you do...I mean literally see everything in your perspective. Why you weren't the person next to you or why you weren't from a different country...it's weird.
There is this strong surge of desire for me to feel a sense of contentment. I suppose it happens to all of us. Material things cannot fulfill my longing for true happiness...apparently, even knowledge can't cope with my inexplicable passions. I only become deaf and isolated from the world in that split-second I exchange glances with my son or husband. It is a fleeting yet profound experience that I so often forget...yet never cease to look for. Such is the irony of my incoherent self. Many times when my emotions take control, a part of me could actually objectively observe that possibility of completely detaching from sanity. It freaks me out to the core. I need to be more optimistic and not over-analyzing. There is much to be content about.
Sometimes I wish I weren't so curious. That I didn't want to know so much. That I relished each second of the present. What I feel now can't be released through an alternative outlet...it's a raw kind of feeling that I just have to put into language. Thank God for keyboards and imaginary audiences.
11:37 PM
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