Deus...propitius esto mihi peccatori-

the key to happiness is

to stay afloat the infinite darkness within us

one day at a time.

***

true love, i said, is a patient kind of pain. every year i learn a bit more about the true depths of this monstrosity-every year i uncover, a bit more, the true hardship behind it.

when you love something, it feels somehow encased in your heart; a snowglobe figurine, sacred, impregnable, safely protected from the outside world by unshatterable glass. but the reality is, the object of your love does not exist in fact in your heart; it is in the world with you, weathering the strains and horrors of this windstorm we call life just as you are. And every time you witness this, i think, you die a little death.

i get frustrated watching those silly Asian music videos that have become popular of late, the ones about foolish adolescents committing suicide in the name of love. i hate the incessant messageboards that claim they are "like, so deep" when in fact they are not profound at all, only immature. when you love somebody, anybody, truly and unconditionally, you don't die for them. how silly. it is hardly that easy. when you love somebody, you learn to live for them...a task that is, without dispute, infinitely harder. it is an irreversible condition. you are helplessly tethered by a living chord (like a vein), so that every time you see them in that windstorm, weathering some hardship, your heart stops, just for a second. the pain that they feel is channeled in an instant from their heart to yours, but through this living chord it is magnified. not only are you privy to their pain, you are feeling a thousand more unpleasant emotions that spring suddenly from dusty corners of your soul you did not even know existed - worry, yearning, abhorration, nausea, panic, frenzied protectiveness, and then - the choking, debilitating sensation of sheer futility. you want to wrap your entire body around them and let the slicing jetties of sand flay your own flesh, for anything would be better than this - but you can't, for they exist in the world, living life just as you are, and your arms are not broad enough to protect them. the sheer strain of it will knock the very breath from your lungs and sap the vitality of your limbs, leaving you to stare wide-eyed at the uselessness of those very arms, dangling and worthless. This is how you know you truly love.

ultimately, when you truly love - and i'm not referring to the self-serving, fleeting, and specious "love" you have for Brad Pitt or the cutie next door or even for your respected teacher or sweet friend - it is an ache unlike anything you have ever felt, an ache that is simply pressure in purely somatic terms. your heart hurts, with all the lactic-acid soreness of overexertion (it is, after all, only a glorified muscle).

it is a feeling that you begin to hate (irony aside). it is a suffocating prison from which you wish you could be free. often, selfishness will kick in for a moment and make me wish i could simply refrain from loving anything, anybody, at least not this much - but like i said, it is an irreversible condition.

***

sorry if i depressed you! a tidbit from DJ to stave off that inner darkness...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epUk3T2Kfno

have you ever loved anyone so much it hurt? really bizarre feeling.

~*~*~

Look at me! she screamed at him. Why don't you ever look at me? Around her the city lights sparkled and whirled, sweeping in drunken arcs - the riotous dance of rebellious stars. The look in her eye was crazed, bloodshot, empty, desperate. He barely recognized her, down to the perfectly manicured hands now sticky with spots of spilt drink clutching at his vest like the anchor of a windblown ship, mooring against something, anything. With one arm he steadied her and with the other he opened the car door, but as she was stumbling in she still did not let go of his vest, so that he, in the interest of preserving Versace's glorious stiching, stumbled into the backseat after her.

The car door slammed, and suddenly the city was gone, muffled, blocked out of temporal existence. Voices that seemed years away bounced like muted rain off of the windows, barely human. In the newfound silence there were only two sounds, her panting heaves and the thunder of his own heartbeat. She looked up at him in a moment of lucidity with her wide, red-rimmed eyes, perfect mascara smeared ever so slightly as if a small bird and tread on the corners, on the razor edge between unconsciousness and tears. His lips closed over hers, and she drowned.

http://positivesharing.com/2006/10/10-seeeeeriously-cool-workplaces/

wow!

question. how many of you out there wish you were

a. 1-3 lbs thinner
b. 3-8 lbs thinner
c. 8-15 lbs thinner
c. 1-10 lbs heavier (?!)

and what gender are you?

(having an ongoing bet with my boss...)

and to bias things further so i can win a free meal at aburiya kinnosuke...

*grin*

insomnia in two parts - Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur

what is this life but a concatenation of sensations? of unfounded exhiliaration, spontaneous lividity, uncontested despair, intoxicating pride? what is this life but fleeting moments of flimsy insignificant whimpering protest - what is our anchor?

life in a series of photographs. your face. my heart. the confetti of late summer spreads out before us, brief as the flashblub flame of youth - and the heady illusion that it will last forever. that the overwhelmingly exhiliration of freedom, beauty, meaninglessness, this ocean of ambroisia that drowns us will last forever.

life that passes us by, as we speed along in this train running on the tracks of time, moving at the speed of weeks, then years, then decades. the blurry images that flicker into ephemeral solidarity dot our memories here and there -one breathless moment of temporal fame, one glimpse from the depths of the dark oubliette of despair that you never thought you could escape, one warm evening of laughter tinted the orange and purple of my Delhi lampshade, one soft moment of weakness when one averted glance transcended physical boundaries and sent us cartwheeling into that primeval place where people are made of downy shadows. our lives are a series of photographs rapidly passing us by, a veritable animation flipbook fed to a generation that has long forgotten the need to stop at  platform once in awhile, sit patiently on a wayward bench, and wait.

life passes us by, and when it is over, what do we have to show for it?

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men...

T.S. Eliot

the hilarity

http://www.radaronline.com/exclusives/2007/02/natural-selection-1.php

oooooooooooooooooooh

According to Fodor's! This makes me really want to go to London. Someone come with me please.

Canteen. It's all posh pies and trendy British classics at this ultra-modern diner in Spitalfield's finance district. With booths and communal oak tables, a lunch crowd wolfs down pies of chicken and tarragon or steak and kidney. The hearty dishes are coupled with mashed potatoes, greens, or mushy peas, and completed with a treacle tart or Eton Mess (strawberries, meringue and cream). There's also Coronation chicken, Macaroni cheese, and everything is reasonably priced. 2 Crispin Place, The City, 0845/686-1122. ££

The Table. Close to Borough food market, the Table is the smartest self-service salad bar in town. Help yourself to a spread of Mediterranean-inspired salads, pastas, bakes, and garnishes, laid out on a long table at this first-floor modern canteen in an architects' office on Southwark Street. Self-service never looked or tasted so good. 83 Southwark St., South Bank, 020/7401-2760. £-££

Arbutus. Award-winning serious cooking at mid-range prices has boosted Arbutus into the winner's circle of favorite Soho eateries. The £17.50 three-course, pre-theater special is the steal of the year. Chef Anthony Demetre might surprise with Cornish sardines or pork belly carpaccio, and lead off with a Valrhona chocolate soup. All 80 wines are offered in mid-size carafes, a cool way to match different wines with grub. 63-64 Frith St., Soho, 020/7734-4545. £££

Acorn House. London's top eco-friendly restaurant in resurgent King's Cross has only been open a few months but it's already leading the trend toward green dining. All ingredients are seasonal, sustainable, organic, and fair-trade. The water's purified on site, the packaging is biodegradable, and all waste is recycled. London's ethical eaters love the concept; they get to choose the size of their portions to help reduce over-consumption. 69 Swinton St., Bloomsbury, 020/7812-1842. £££

Original Lahore Kebab House. London's best budget curries draw droves to this kebab house in insalubrious Aldgate. It may be BYO, no-frills, and feel like Karachi inside, but -- wow! -- the Pakistani home-style cooking is brilliant and cheap. Mutton tikka, grilled lamb chops, tarka daal, and karahi chicken are all fiery and super spiced. A meal's nothing at £15 a head, and knocks spots off anything on offer in nearby Brick Lane's Curry Mile. 2 Umberston St., The City, 020/7481-9737. £

L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon. London's A-listers sit side-by-side at the counter and graze tapas-style at French legend Joël Robuchon's super seductive outpost. Decked out in plush red and black, counter seating frames the ground-floor open kitchen, creating a spectacle that is pure culinary theatre. Navigate exquisite French tapas -- from frog's legs to veal rib and quail with truffle mash. The £80 six-course tasting menu is a neat way to experience multiple flavors. There's also a smart cocktail bar, and a sit-down restaurant, La Cuisine, on the first floor. 13-15 West St., Covent Garden. 020/7010-8600. ££££