Saturday, October 06, 2007
A certain void pervades my horizon as i pen this to ease some of my pain. I psychoanalyze myself from time to time and i conclude that i have an overly powerful conscious and ego, one that dictates how i should feel or should express myself. As for my unconscious or my dear ID, he has been tamed and caged by dear all rationality. Time and time again i proclaim myself the last Jedi Knight from the old republic, envisioning myself as anakin, taking a walk to the dark side and back again. I like L way more than Kira, a person's fave character in death note will speak volumes on which aspect of his or her psyche takes dominance. These days i am filled with philosophical anguish, where my heart aches for the evil all around me. My only spirited argument in this age of madness is that literature cannot be weighed and measured by economic terms. A work, any work, particularly socially conscious piece of works are beautiful in their own rights. Using the cliche analogy of washed up starfish during a low tide, the little boy that picks and throws them back cannot possibly save everyone of them, but he certainly makes a difference to the ones he grants his compassion. Thus literature, or pieces of literary works are like drips in the flux of time, creating minute ripples in hope that when enough ripples are created, a wave will take its place.
My work too are all tiny drops in the massive flux of time. Perhaps through writing i shall make a difference to myself and others.
Remember me. Love me. Pray for me.
Posted by Jo