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tenshinoakuma) wrote2009-03-04 07:31 pm
tenshinoakuma) wrote2009-03-04 07:31 pm
Entry tags:
Ode ganked from the other failure
Ode to Trigonometry
If only my life was as easy as pi
It would be parallel to none
I'd circle the world, I'd get a great tan
Everything would be complementary
Where do I sine up?
Too bad it's about as real as i
--
There was a little patch of grass outside my uni's lecture building. I spent the small moment before the lecture started lying down on the grass and looking up at the sky, with the sun beating down on my arm and a breeze gently rolling in. And I realised how incredibly boring our sky must look to people from other countries; it's nothing but blue expanse, no clouds.
But it's the sky I live under, and I love it.
--
One of the... frustrations isn't quite the right word, because frustration implies that it's something that's adding at least some minor stress to my life. But it's this... inability to fully form my thoughts and/or experiences. I'm constantly reaching out to grab hold of an idea, a concept, a feeling, a word, but they all evade me.
Life really is like navigating through a fog for me, because very little is clear. Constantly having to go through 'what was I doing/going to do again?' and 'what was I thinking again?' and 'what did I just read again?' loops eats up a lot of time. I don't think enough, I don't think fast enough. I don't know the right questions to ask, I don't know the right answers to give. It's hard for me to describe anything (tangible, intangible) because it's hard for me to remember what things were like. It's kind of like my brain has communication fail with the rest of my five senses, and vice versa.
But sometimes, sometimes, in those rare moments of clarity, I can really feel something, and I can really remember what something's like. And those are the moments I try to capture in writing. Sometimes those moments disappear as quickly as they came, but sometimes they linger, and those are those little stories, the little snapshots of life that I'm most pleased with, because there's a certain joy in sharing these few incredibly vivid experiences with others.
But what is it about joy that makes it so much harder for me to capture with mere words than a moment of sadness? Maybe it's because I don't fully understand what it means to be happy. Maybe it's the lingering fragments of a time when I was less positive. Maybe it's because hindsight is 20/20, and writing down some form of those abandoned feelings of self-loathing and non-existence is my way of giving myself closure.
There's a sharp difference between my writings that I am satisfied with, and the ones I'm not. All the little snippets that seem to convey the most emotion (or vividness) are always the ones that are a picture of my life.
Because that's how I write. From experience. It's all I can remember.
If only my life was as easy as pi
It would be parallel to none
I'd circle the world, I'd get a great tan
Everything would be complementary
Where do I sine up?
Too bad it's about as real as i
--
There was a little patch of grass outside my uni's lecture building. I spent the small moment before the lecture started lying down on the grass and looking up at the sky, with the sun beating down on my arm and a breeze gently rolling in. And I realised how incredibly boring our sky must look to people from other countries; it's nothing but blue expanse, no clouds.
But it's the sky I live under, and I love it.
--
One of the... frustrations isn't quite the right word, because frustration implies that it's something that's adding at least some minor stress to my life. But it's this... inability to fully form my thoughts and/or experiences. I'm constantly reaching out to grab hold of an idea, a concept, a feeling, a word, but they all evade me.
Life really is like navigating through a fog for me, because very little is clear. Constantly having to go through 'what was I doing/going to do again?' and 'what was I thinking again?' and 'what did I just read again?' loops eats up a lot of time. I don't think enough, I don't think fast enough. I don't know the right questions to ask, I don't know the right answers to give. It's hard for me to describe anything (tangible, intangible) because it's hard for me to remember what things were like. It's kind of like my brain has communication fail with the rest of my five senses, and vice versa.
But sometimes, sometimes, in those rare moments of clarity, I can really feel something, and I can really remember what something's like. And those are the moments I try to capture in writing. Sometimes those moments disappear as quickly as they came, but sometimes they linger, and those are those little stories, the little snapshots of life that I'm most pleased with, because there's a certain joy in sharing these few incredibly vivid experiences with others.
But what is it about joy that makes it so much harder for me to capture with mere words than a moment of sadness? Maybe it's because I don't fully understand what it means to be happy. Maybe it's the lingering fragments of a time when I was less positive. Maybe it's because hindsight is 20/20, and writing down some form of those abandoned feelings of self-loathing and non-existence is my way of giving myself closure.
There's a sharp difference between my writings that I am satisfied with, and the ones I'm not. All the little snippets that seem to convey the most emotion (or vividness) are always the ones that are a picture of my life.
Because that's how I write. From experience. It's all I can remember.