What I write about love is the matter of the heart, having suffered in silence like a dormant volcano now simmering over as if challenging to burst out any moment. I didn’t burst out but rather became calmer as the days passed, eventually cooling down to what I am nowadays- feeble pulse looking for icer times ahead.
The turn of the millennia brought me good news and made me feel better as I do now listening to Dutch orchestra. The life boils down to competitiveness as we prepare ourselves forever job-hopping in search of fame and wealth.
I forsake love more than sleep, though I sleep with face buried into forgetfulness.
What I have received thus far in life, I have readily accepted not as my fate or Karma but the eventuality of eternal recurrence which means this is about to repeat eventually. The past doesn’t exist, yet it recurs eternaly. This seems a paradox but it is true. The past is but a memory, which repeats itself after a while.