Writings

"Out from the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks"
What we say reflect what who we truly are and what we really feel inside. Looking back today, I can see that there are times that I have said things I did not consciously meant to say, but they came out of me anyway. Using Sigmund Frued's psychoanalytic chuva, Could it be that these are the things I really want to say? Is this the voice of my heart outsinging the words of my mouth? If so, then this could be my window to my soul, a way to finally understand myself. And, again, looking back, I can see that some of my unconsious outburst have been about some people, and things that I can never hope to realize. . .
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Untitled
"Maybe I try so hard at things I shouldn't be and too little on things I should. But no matter what I do, I can never be what I think they would want me to be."

Same confusing line, day after day. So monotonous. So boring... So unanswered! If only I would find answers to my questions, life would be much better. But maybe I'm just looking at the soot in the bottom of the pot, and not the tasty soup it contains. Maybe. Another question that I can add to the thousand that I have asked, which have been left unanswered.
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"Mockery is man's disguise to fear."
This line is scary. I mean, in the course of a day, we mock so many things, people, ideas, and if we think of it, What if this line was true? What if we do mock the things we truly fear? I mock so many things in my life: friends, acquaintances, lessons, teachers, ... almost everything I come in contact with, i mock in some way.

And the scariest thing is, I think its true.
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"Tell Her About It"
Written by Billy Joel


Listen boy
Don't want to see you let a good thing
Slip away

You know I don't like watching
Anybody make the same mistakes
I made

She's a real nice girl
And she's always there for you
But a nice girl wouldn't tell you what you should do

Listen boy
I'm sure that you think you got it all
Under control

You don't want somebody telling you
The way to stay in someone's soul
You're a big boy now
You'll never let her go
But that's just the kind of thing
She ought to know

Tell her about it
Tell her everything you feel
Give her every reason to accept
That you're for real

Tell her about it
Tell her all your crazy dreams
Let her know you need her
Let her know how much she means

Listen boy
It's not automatically a certain guarantee
To insure yourself
You've got to provide communication constantly

When you love someone
You're always insecure
And there's only one good way
To reassure

Tell her about it
Let her know how much you care
When she can't be with you
Tell her you wish you were there

Tell her about it
Every day before you leave
Pay her some attention
Give her something to believe

Cause now and then
She'll get to worrying
Just because you haven't spoken
For so long
Though you may not have done anything
Will that be a consolation when she's gone

Listen boy
It's good information from a man
Who's made mistakes

Just a word or two that she gets from you
Could be the difference that it makes

She's a trusting soul
So put her trust in you
But a girl like that won't tell you
What you should do

Tell her about it
Tell her everything you feel
Give her every reason
To accept that you're for real

Tell her about it
Tell her all your crazy dreams
Let her know you need her
Let her know how much she means

Tell her about it
Tell her how you feel right now
Tell her about it
The girl don't want to wait too long
You got to tell her about it
Tell her now and you won't go wrong
You got to tell her about it

Before it gets too late
You got to tell her about it
You know the girl don't want
To wait--you got to
Tell her about it
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Epilogue

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.


Is it called giving up, or facing reality?