Gethsemane

---

Bring me your sorrow, your murderous rage. Your hatred and fear, your vile thoughts and desires. Your sickness and cynicism. Your poison blood, your bitter heart. Your frightened, frigid eyes. Give me your despair, your miscarriages and ruined marriages. Give me your curse, your immense, endless hurt. Your greed and fathomless hunger. Give me your rejection, your arrogance, your pettiness, your vanity, your violence, your cruelty, your filth, your failure, your cowardice, your dead children, your devastation and thirst for revenge. Give me your unfaithfulness, your betrayal, your false words and prayers, your kiss of death.

---

O come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

as it is in heaven / love is war

And I will call upon your name
And keep my eyes above the waves


---

"I think that, this is how angels sings in heaven"

---

Power that protects, strength that overwhelms - love that makes you feel both strong and weak at the same time.

weekend soundtrack vol 1.

this song is called 'hating the part of you that wants to be liked & loving the part of you that hates itself (and learning to like yourself anyway)'

---

year of meteors

we escaped this ruined world

the thrill of possibility, freedoms new frontiers

watching the tepid globe shrink into the distance

we charted a course for new lands, unknown

what we'll find

then came the dust

we didn't account for the dust in our calculations

it eroded everything

we had to give up parts of ourselves to make do with repairs

slowly, gradually,

we began to tire. our lives lost its thrill

preoccupied with routine maintenance

we lost the desire to create, submitting to the primeval

directive - to replicate, sustain

the self we gave up our pluripotency

planet after planet, barren, unaccommodating

sailing across this vast nothingness

we couldn't turn back after having come so far

we tried religion

this God the humans worship

we couldn't sleep, no rest

its ironic, the way humans regard

us an abomination, we are created beings

are we not simply grandchildren?

we couldn't connect - wonder what a soul is,  this theoretical construct

this year of meteors - we've lost count

confronted with infinity, the integers lose their meaning

a river of flaming rock shooting across the interminable

unconscious void

stood silhouetted in its glow

this gorgeous procession

this year of meteors, must be different somehow

must mean something

right?

i'm going east but first let me go west

"At that moment," Iran said, "when I had the TV sound off, I was in a 382 mood; I had just dialed it. So although I heard the emptiness intellectually, I didn't feel it. My first reaction consisted of being grateful that we could afford a Penfield mood organ. But then I realised how unhealthy it was, sensing the absence of life, not just in this building but everywhere, and not reacting - do you see? I guess you don't. But that used to be considered a sign of mental illness; they called it 'absence of appropriate affect.' So I left the TV sound off and I sat down at my mood organ and I experimented. And I finally found a setting for despair." 

----


It's been so long since I felt the way I used to.

I think it's because I haven't had time to process everything that has happened to me.

Graduation, leaving behind a city again. Submerged, phagocytosed into a new job, a new life. It's just too much, and I haven't expressed any of it. Haven't told anyone - really told anyone how I feel. Just kept it all inside and carried on. And now like a clogged toilet, it's all too much and it's just overflowing and causing a big stinky mess.

There's a cost to be incurred with these things, an emotional debt that needs to be settled. My account has been overdrawn.

Sometimes when I go home, I find artifacts. Anachronisms - a high school era pencil box tucked away in a cabinet somewhere - and I'm instantly transported into the past. I get a faint whiff of that year's lunacy, and the sense of familiarity is so intense and abrupt that it's novel and therefore briefly intoxicating. I could spend a whole week trawling through old notebooks and toys, a whole year even. Last summer I spent an evening flicking through an old photo album with my mom. Leafing through years of happiness and impermanence.

I want to go back.

Thinking about it, I've probably always wanted to go back. It's like a perpetual itch I can't seem to scratch. It's not that I want to live in the past forever -- just a week maybe. When I go home, I want it to be the same as before. I don't want the new shopping malls. I don't want to hear about the news, my cousin's baby, who's dating who. I mean sure, I do - but most of all what I want is a chance to miss what I've missed - to touch base - to catch up on some reading, some thinking, some feeling. I want to be who I'm going to be, sure, but first let me be who I was again.

センター

Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.

second alarm