wuthering heights

A story of a divine love struggling futilely to survive in a world made to reject it--love that, like the the wilderness, needs to grow untamed--yet twisted by societal convention, warped by the girdles, the fences, the walls made only to protect. The utter destruction of souls made--but not allowed--to love: a passion that needs suddenly to manifest, wherever and however, as pain that is as vivid and vast as the love that engendered it.

If it must destroy the lover, then it shall also destroy the ones who ended his love.

Love beyond selfish gratification, love that is entirely for and within the beloved; love that wavers not with the passage of time, nor with the growing of distance--that no one can understand, that is so blazingly passionate it appears entirely alien.

Wuthering Heights is brilliant. I find myself wishing these people would continue to live and spin their tale. I swear they breathed while I read, and breathe still in my mind: such is the rage and potence of the love that is told of, that transcends the grave in which it was laid, that seeped out through the layers, and exuded itself through the voice of one and extend into the life of another, and in turn through his voice now colour the life of myself. Only now do I see the merit of the framed narrative...the more voices through which it is passed, the more powerful the story seems; we find ourselves in the place that Mr. Lockwood the narrator found himself once--learning the tale from Nelly the housekeeper, and likewise we listen to the tale through him, and we tell the tale to our friends...and the story extends itself into the living world. The content of the story itself exemplifies its own shattering power in reality; the lines between reality and fiction have never been blurred so seamlessly, into spatial indifference, into timelessness, into universality.

I know it is fiction--yet fiction whose message holds weight in reality, that can effect real changes, or lead us to consider our own lives: that is the true art of fiction, and a book that can create such an effect is an outstanding work indeed. Even a hundred and fifty years from the time it was conceived, time disparity does not seem an issue in suspension of disbelief...while I am reading, that world is as real and present as the true Now, those feelings still the same though time has changed so much else...

Such love has no place in a temporary, forgettable book. Such love in itself brands the tale as a timeless classic. The struggle of nature and of the innate passion of the heart, against a world of convention that loves the normal--the restrained--the ones who maintain a pretence. I am in love with this book.

P.S. fangirlmoment! Yeah I know everyone loves manly men...but manly Heathcliff and the hairy, smelly macho quality about him just aren't for me. I prefer Edgar the feminine blonde-locked to him, but overall in the book, I like the sickly spoilt brat Linton the most>o<

I am stupid. I am useless. I am ugly. I am self-absorbed. I am pathetic.

I don't remember compliments, only insults. Compliments mean nothing as long as there are insults nullifying them. Insults are just that powerful. Compliments are mindless.

blindness

that is the tragedy. an entire world of misguided people, chasing things they desire but do not own, blind to the things they already have. always so taken in, so utterly transfixed, on the green grass on the other side of the fence. because seeing another have something you do not own always makes it a hundred times more desirable, does it not? greed and jealousy, at its finest. so subversive, because it runs in the nerve impulses whose pathways were linked by the patter of words on our windows.

"his success can be attributed to his talent."
"you have money? come in."
"be happy; you have more than that guy over there."

to have is to be happy.
to have more is to be happier.
to have all is to be the happiest person alive.
to have less is reason for you to desire to have more.

you are never happy with what you have, as long as there is someone who has something you don't.

in my longing to comprehend these vast creatures of mathematics and social science and foreign syntax, lying in that dust grovelling in fuming frustration wishing I could just know and just have as much--I suppose I never realised I was creating things with my own hands that made them jealous.

just as jealous of me as I am of them.


and here you are, thinking dejectedly that they, the mathematicians and physicists with all the accolades glittering on their shelves and all of the world working in their favour, are sneering down upon you, mocking you raucously--how silly you look as you stare, not-understanding, at a dumb sheet of formulae.

when behind their backs they hide clasped fingers; behind their clean smiles they hide aching hearts, hearts that wish they knew how to spin songs the way you do.

(something as little and simple as that. something they should have no reason to want. something you don't really take notice of.)

that is the tragedy.

late nights

Late nights have never been good for me. But at the point when I make the choice to stay up into the morning, I'm not really thinking. Or at least all logical thought processes are occupied by Facebook or whatever it is on the computer that's draining my attention away--work, friends, blogposts,.stalking.

By tomorrow I'll curse my choice, and I'll find myself dragging my mind through lesson after lesson, wondering why the hell I didn't have the better discretion to go to sleep earlier. But here now I've come to that point of no return, as I do every night. It's a little too early to relinquish the effort, and a little too late to regret staying up so late.

untold story

venturing an untold story.
telling an old secret.

confessing.

doing something you swore you'd never do.
breaking your first vase.
finishing a novel.
failing an exam.
falling in love.
cold days.
the static before the storm.
burning your hand in the fire.

never turning back.

the little thrills of life; they are what make it worth living.

the clock strikes two

no, I'm really overusing the pendulum metaphor.
thrice in half year.
not good.

eternal pendulum

"my life oscillates like a pendulum between three magnets"

she said once.

Up and down, and left and right and on and on and out of sight.

The period of the pendulum is irregular.

And that is why I can never anticipate my life swinging the other way. For moments within a suspension of fantasy I can believe I want nothing else--that I am safe and above all shadow.

And at the next, it is taken away. All demolished. By none other than myself and my traitorous personality. I sink into the dark again, nothing left behind me.

she never learns.

It leaves a sort of ghost in its wake, a dull throbbing darkness that fades but never really vanishes. A stain. I can scour with all my tears, but it stays.

Till my heart is black.


I'm crossing, border to border, north to south to east to west. Oftentimes I find myself wishing that life would simply--freeze. Stop short, stop within this moment of happiness, and linger in it until the world's close. Let me revel in it. Stop sending me through pain and joy and pain, cyclically, cycling, circling. Stop sending me in circles.

Oftentimes I find myself crying suddenly wondering--wasn't I laughing just moments ago? Is this goodbye to innocence, innocence where joy could last forever? Why won't the world stop turning? Why won't the past just die?

I like how, if you trace the vertical displacement of a single point on the circumference of a rotating circle along a horizontal time axis, you find yourself a sine graph. Up and down. Up and down, just like life. Up and down, but round and round.

Sometimes, I wish it were so patterned, so easy to predict and pre-empt. I wish there were an equation for the unfolding of time. I wish there were some way to know when the world is about to invert upon you, and fling you deep down into a trough.

But the period of the pendulum is irregular.

And still life swings, unstoppable by all.

to do

Much as I want to lose myself in the moment, I know when the stakes are too high.

I will be happy at whatever cost--to heck with my studies and my "future".

I would love to think that way. I can't, I know. This is the sort of folly that everyone will sigh piteously at when the time comes, and I'm foundering in my bottom-end job in a dark place I hated long before I came.

"What was she thinking, giving so much away?"

It is not folly, the Me of now wants to answer. But I know I am silly and young, and I know those lessons that everyone tells, over and over.

"Future" is a huge word.

My heart might cry out against it, but I know, somehow, that no matter how happy it makes me now, I will come to regret eventually.

Delayed gratification. I have heard tales that the ability to postpone satisfaction is the mark of someone successful. And I do wonder if I want to be successful, if it means I'll be unhappy more than 90% of the time. But then, I think I'll take the suffering of now better than the suffering of next year.

A large part of living is learning to balance everything, and I suppose this is where the test of living lies. I'll save my happiness for later, if wait I can. I'm patient enough to wait, I believe.

Doing a PW consultation summary, distractedly.

calm

I'm beyond fear now.
It's become impossible to fear the end.