Sometimes I'd like to believe
that we've got all the time in the world.

And sometimes I believe that we do.

To properly deliver certain affirmations

I can't speak of love, because I don't know what it is.
But I can speak of some other things, like how much I care about, cherish, and mentally depend on what we've come across.


I can't speak of love, because I have mixed feelings towards weighty words. And I, like the poet, labor to make them light.
I break those words into sugary pieces, or little jigsaw puzzles, for you to put them back together, to show the whole picture of how I really feel. Unlike those words; those weighty words only bound the expression of feelings, and shackle the philosophical aspects of them, too.


I can't speak of love, because, frankly, I'm not qualified to speak in such terms just yet.
But now I'd like to believe that it's possible, although I was once mockingly convinced otherwise.

To properly analyse a certain strain of commitment issues

就三不五時覺得應該抽腿一下。


或抽手。
或抽身。


I need A LOT of assurances.

To properly measure an act of devotion

跳坑。

躊躇半天，

And then it's the free fall

接下來就是探底的過程了

在等簡訊的時候
ipod跳出這首歌。

To properly keep scores and tabs in check

She's probably right, that I'm too much of a handful.

But sometimes I wonder whether it's because that I'm too tough or too fragile.

Too breakable, perhaps.
Why else would someone become too much of a handful, if were not broken into countless pieces?

To properly present an elephant in the room

I don't trust such recognition, or certainty, towards feelings.
Especially the certainty built within a short period of time.
The twisted soul, nor the bi-polar extremes have shown themselves yet. So how do you know how you feel? Isn't it greatly possible that none of the foundations of such feelings are true?

Being simplistic - it is a lifestyle by choice, but some definitive character.

Me avoiding mind games doesn't mean that I don't know how to play them.
Me hating power plays doesn't mean that I don't know how to manipulate.

People are like ogres, like onions, having layers.
Don't ever judge a book by its cover.

Where is the lid?

Hope.
She closed the lid of that box, and it has been entangled with our streaks of thoughts ever since.
In a more geeky way of putting it, it has become the default setting for human minds.

胖子滿身大汗，癱坐在地上。房間的另一頭，站著身穿黑披風的殺手。殺手戴著皮手套，擺弄著榔頭―剛才拿來敲碎胖子的左膝關節的那把。

「聽著，」殺手說，「你越早開口，對我們倆越好。我不用費神把你身上每個關節都敲碎，你也省得哭爹喊娘。」

胖子用被綑住的雙手勉強抹抹額頭。稀疏的灰金色頭髮已被冷汗浸透，一條條黏在眉毛和頭頂之間，他冷哼了一聲。

「你以為我是笨蛋嗎？我不說，你會殺了我；我說了，你還是會殺了我，就算你不動手，他們也會。那麼說不說到底對我有什麼差？」

「差別就在於，」殺手有點不耐煩，「我是專業人士，下手快又準，你再痛也痛不過三秒鐘；但是如果你造成我的麻煩，或是落到他們手上，不只你死得痛苦，你的老婆小孩也逃不掉。說到你的老婆……」殺手意有所指的咂嘴，一邊用眼角觀察胖子的反應。

「不知道呢，若你招了，也許我會看在你老婆孩子的分上，放你一馬。」說到這裡，殺手的語氣變得柔和，輕軟如棉花糖。

但是胖子還是止不住的猛搖頭。「不行，我不能告訴你。我什麼都不能說，說了我就死定了。」

殺手嘴邊的笑意瞬間凝結，提起榔頭一步一步朝胖子走去。兩個字從牙縫中迸出來：「快　說。」

胖子的音調因為焦慮而飆高。

「不，拜託不要啊，我不能說，拜託，不啊啊啊啊啊…」

霎時間，胖子的右膝蓋也成了碎片。

出於疼痛，胖子氣喘如牛，腰帶上方突出的啤酒肚劇烈的起伏著。

殺手扭扭脖子、伸展肩膀，手裡握著一把染血的榔頭。

「夠了沒有？你到底什麼時候才要招？錢到底在哪裡？」

胖子的臉蒼白如紙，雙腿呈現怪異的角度，褲管上有深色汙漬。

「我說過好幾次了，我不能就這樣告訴你……」看到殺手又作勢要舉起榔頭，胖子接著說下去。

「等等，你聽我說！我不能就這樣說出錢在哪裡，但我可以告訴你誰會去拿那筆錢……」　

And did he live?



When something is dead it's dead.
Someone told me to stop thinking of what I've killed.
Killed, spilt, cut off, or let go. All the same.
I suppose the quest for what-ifs and maybes is as tormenting as hope itself.

So where is the lid?
Where is the lid that, when opened, unleashes the manifestation of human strengths and weaknesses?

And it's just a stupid pun.

Self-Indulgence

我知道我不可能找出所有的答案

也知道有些事根本沒有答案

那只是我的耽溺，

The quest for answers

To properly draw a grotesque picture of life

The Comedian died today. 
Well maybe not today; he has died in the very beginning of Watchmen. 
In that sense, he has died who-knows-how-many times, and will continue to do so whenever someone opens the first pages of the book, for who-knows-how-many times. 
I've got a yellow smiling badge and put in onto the wall, hadn't put on the blood stain yet. Figured it would've probably ensure some positivity, or hope so, but in vain.

The thing is, or I should say, the thing that I'm trying to describe here, is the inevitability of Panic Attacks.
Panic does attack. I wish otherwise, but it does. 


You search for good things to think about, to hinder the negative energy, to feel better about yourself, but at the end of the day, feeling good or bad is simply out of control. Sometimes the powerlessness weigh you down like sands dropping through fingers. 


And I, am the YOUs in these texts, just a quick annotation.


You can feel like a 9 ft tall giant just because of a smile from a stranger; and you can feel crappy as hell, despite how much (or how little) that you've done. 
Panic attacks, with annotations or not, whether you do good or not, for whatever reasons possible. 


Sadly, I don't have the words for drawing a brighter conclusion.
There's only the one with grotesque depression.

Hardly a fable

難說是不是個寓言。



知道我為什麼幫自己取這個名字？


我討厭輸的感覺。




別把那些瑣碎的挑戰當作試探，
因為連我也不知道自己會做得多絕。
那種執拗根深蒂固，奔流於血液之中，
一旦被挑戰就一點也不想輸。


三不五時被試探一下讓我很不爽。




絕對，絕對不要逼我。




最討厭被試探了，
過去有太多次不愉快的經驗。
如果說身上有任何不可磨滅的創傷，
這就是了。
對於信任的高度不信任，
對於質疑的高度質疑。


就算一切都結束我也不會怎麼樣，
所以不耐煩了厭倦了我是真的會一走了之的。


就我的解讀，
只願意試探就代表不願意付出。
而你願意　或不願意給
我都無所謂。


我不確定自己值不值得，
只知道如果你有所猶疑，
那你就不值得。



難說是不是個寓言，
這些自憐又自我辯解的話
聽聽就罷。

不知道是以什麼心情在瞎等什麼。

Things I think about in bath

A. Space

I've sailed down the river, peeping under the skirt of concrete-built highways, the mobility of post-industrial modern life.
So I sail down the words, sipping imaginary wine with already-dead drunkards, and read about solitude and sea monsters.
I as well sail down through memory, piecing what's left of it, and imagine of a way to shorten the distances from heart to heart, island to island, and airport to airport.


B. Time

There was a little girl that walked before me, swaying her butt. I looked at her back pockets, tried to envision what she'd become in thirty years.

As time goes by.

There are bruises under my skin. I stare at the spread of purple and green, picture it to heal, and grow into a giant tree with leaves of toughness and arrogance, stems of courage, and fruits of love.

As time goes by.

To properly cross out pros and cons

For a reason unknown I have sensed something awkward emerging,
though right now everything should be clear and joyful and all.

Events happen one after another, they arrive and fade away almost simultaneously.
I can hardly recognise any sign.
Maybe I'm seeing things at the speed of light, without a capable, comprehending mind.

It is tempting, I can never say otherwise,
but it's also possible that the appeal only exists in my mind.

Answers are never sought.
I wish they were, but they never are.

只能用極為隱晦的方式
去描述那些懸浮在
腦海裡的微粒　

試著不用詞彙去包裝　
簡單的情感　
或去粉飾真實

我眼中的真實
一切的不完美與完美
你以為是醜陋面孔堆疊成的嗎

你所捍衛的城牆後面
什麼都沒有
我的來去　言語或沉默都無所依恃　
你在憂懼什麼呢

至於我，
一切的不完美與完美　
我無所依恃
也無須依恃。

所謂姿態：
http://theinterpretor.blogspot.com/2009/10/blog-post.html　

單純複雜

跨年很開心。

隨性和極限很搭。

我說了好多該說和不該說的話　
也聽了不少。

希望已經把Grumpiness留在去年　
不過我猜它非但沒有質變　還更黏膩地跟上了　
理性而暴怒，
瘋了是吧。

想起了我的驕傲。
在可能和不可能之間　
我能夠要求更少或更多些嗎　

不想開啟什麼偉大康莊的新紀元　
不想斷言改變不改變　
無論時間空間，
我都只是同一個我　

而話無論說活說死都沒有意義。

要是你從一開始就這麼在乎就好了，
羅夏說。
要是我不知道該不該在乎怎麼辦？

五　四　三　二　一　
然後他們轉身就走了，
他們錯過了明天。

我的扭曲和怯懦可以被治療嗎

我的自找麻煩和melodrama可以被治療嗎

To properly displace a sentimental heart

Prayed to be better, and what I got is a feedback telling how terrible I was.
F**k my pride, I say, f**k my swollen yet easily shrunken pride.
But cursing my pride doesn't stop the hurt.
Heck, cursing other people for fun doesn't stop the hurt, either.
And now I'm praying for the pain to go away.

Hate those moments when you know it damn well that you need to be objective and thoughen up, but your head just wouldn't stop spinning in self-disgust.
The existential anxiety is the soul draining white noise that hovers around 24 and 7, popping up whenever you accidentally pay attention.

How come you just can't shake loose the doom and gloom?
But then again, how can you shake off a shadow?
It all sticks on you, in a thickened, sick sort of way, like mucus.

You can have it all

Insomnious for 3 nights in a role; allergies going non-stop; gut pains; acnes and muscle fatigue;
yes, you can have it all.

Gees, I sound like Proust.

New Desktop （內含不負責任發言，慎入）

＊　法蘭克　DP　Daken　蝙哥　＊

（DC兵敗如山倒　振作點，你們振作點！
一切都是要怪彩燈彩戒這種類比忍者連隊
cliche到不行的故事設定啦）

話說我還滿期待Batman Inc.的～
Return of Bruce Wayne看得好沒勁，蝙哥都還沒到回家我就已經不耐煩了！ #4遇上Jonah Hex， 我還以為會來場腥風血雨哩（至少畫面帥氣補眼睛），結果我是在看卡通卡通嗎那是什麼畫風啊！

但Marvel接下來的路子我也搞不懂。
吸血鬼事件和新X-Force(我發現我對史考特已經完全心死了＊)
編劇請告訴我Daken和Deadpool的搞頭是在哪？
最後我只能期待復活的法蘭克大叔了是嗎。。。。。
（要是又跑回去跟DD打架我會翻桌！）

＊在此解釋為何對史考特心死

雖然不是特別討厭Emma，但我只有一句話能對這對夫妻說：

你們搞屁啊！！！！！＝皿＝　史考特你瘋了嗎！

周遭所有人都跟你那根本沒死透又留了一大堆親戚的［前真愛］老婆感情好得要命
偏偏你卻跟艾瑪愛得死去活來誰看了會給你好臉色看啊！
而且　專心談戀愛就算了你還搞什麼政治！！！！
就是你這樣莫名其妙X-Men才會變成狼哥狼叔的啦！！！！

To properly define gains and losses

Some people just don't get it.
You don't trade love, nor can you colonise it.
Either it's there or it's not, or maybe it get to grow someday, but it is never forced or drained out from anyone.

And it always hurts when someone materialize your good intentions.
Is that all I ever worth to you?

....Why do they always say "they understand" while they never do?



She never take anyone seriously but herself, I should've known better.
I really should have.
Guess I'm still naiive that I took her and the hope for her recognition seriously.
Why do I need to be recognised in the first place? When can I really say it out loud that I don't need to prove myself to anyone?


The never-ending "who owes the other more" has got me bored. I'm tired of waiting for him to change, and I'm even more tired of explaining my rightuousness...to him, or to anyone.
Yet his cowardness and pathetic self-justification still amaze me. "You're still clinging onto those...after all these years?"
He fears that I see debt when I look him in the eyes, but he never realise that the fear was derived from what he sees in himself. The gaze is his own, not mine.



Conclusion:
Some are just born to make others more miserable.
Really.



"Hello to high and dry."

在文件庫裡翻到的一篇

Unsure.

Here I go again. Alienated with my own problems, and then get something distant in its place. There is nothing else more horrifying than the self-generated melodrama, fused by falsely placed contentment, twisting and distorting a person’s mind like mine. On the marginal line where everything is clearly marked as fine and not fine, both the before and aftermaths are not accurately measured. Before this line, things are colourfully painted, with nothing bad, simply because all the foes are neglected and overlooked; on the other hand, after this line, nothing good ever happens, and the life and mind of one end up circling within a miserable loop. The only way to crack open it is still unknown, given time, maybe, or something that carries overwhelming light suddenly kicks in. For the time being, only the miserable loop is present.