Pink city


There are always those moments, I’m on my way, being incredibly lucky to encounter the most amazing feeling in my life.

Among thousands of shots and words, there is still something missing.

She told me she will never fall in love like that again, and I believed her. We’ve already past that young age, getting old enough to make claims, regardless right or wrong, true or false.

We’ve never slowed down, nor tasted the kiss happening only in our mind. The burning break and sparkling thruster and the candy man’s prophesy kept us accompany for years and years, until the end of the road, though we cannot see it.


The Book of Laughter and Forgetting-Milan Kundera

“The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.”-4

“At a time when history still made its way slowly, the few events were easily remembered and woven into a backdrop, known to everyone, before which private life unfolded the gripping show of its adventures. Nowadays, time moves forward at a rapid pace. Forgotten overnight, a historic event glistens the next day like the morning dew and thus is no longer the backdrop to a narrator’s tale but rather an amazing adventure enacted against the background of the over-familiar banality of private life.”-10

“…all human beings have always aspired to an idyll, to that garden where nightingales sing, to that realm of harmony where the world does not rise up as a stranger against man and man against other men,…”-11

“The future is only an indifferent void that no one cares about, but the past is filled with life, and its countenance is irritating, repellent, wounding, to the point that we want to destroy or repaint it. We want to be masters of the future only for the power to change the past.”-30

“The good of the world, however, implies not that the angels have the advantage over the devils (as I believed when I was a child) but that the powers of the two sides are nearly in equilibrium.”-86

“‘You know,’ said Banaka, ‘the novel is the fruit of a human illusion. The illusion of the power to understanding others. But what do we know of one another?’
‘Nothing,’said Bibi.
‘That’s true,’said Joujou.
The philosophy professor nodded his head in approval.
‘All anyone can do,’ said Banaka, ‘is give a report on oneself. Anything else is an abuse of power. Anything else is a lie.'”-124

“I think Thomas Mann sounded that ‘faint, clear, metallic tone’ to create silence. He needed that silence to make beauty audible…”-143

“(Yes, I realize you don’t know what I’m talking about, because beauty vanished long ago. It vanished under the surface of the noise-the noise of words, the noise of cars, the noise of music-we live in constantly. It has been drowned life Atlantis. All that remains of it is the word, whose meaning become less intelligible with every passing year.)”-144

“Kristyna is a woman of about thirty, who has a child, a butcher husband she gets along with quite well, and a very intermittent affair with a local mechanic, who no and then makes love to her after hours amid the discomforts of the auto-repair shop. The small town hardly lends itself to extramarital love, or rather it requires a wealth of ingenuity and audacity, qualities Kristyna is not abundantly endowed with.”-163

“I spoke earlier of a Thomas Mann story: a young man suffering from a mortal illness gets on a train and descends in an unknown town. There is a wardrobe in his room, and every night a painfully beautiful naked woman steps out of it and tells him a long, sweet sad tale, and that woman and that tale are death.”-236

“‘…And what’s even more peculiar is that all the bodies are beautiful. Look, even old bodies, even sick bodies are beautiful as soon as they are only bodies, bodies without clothes. They’re as beautiful as nature. An old tree is no less beautiful than a young one, and a sick lion is still king of the beasts. Human ugliness is the ugliness of clothes.'”-310

My conspirator of words, there is always much to note, much to remember, not as a part of your demo, but a part of myself too. I know it’ll go with time, they will all be gone with time, but the moment I snapped my fingers, closed my eyes, and underlined in between pages indeed happened and now already resolving into part of my past.


An expensive heaven

I am tired of being a student waiting for a praise,
a cactus needing the embrace,
a word lingering in your eyes but unspeakable out of your month.

My worst lover read bad French of his poem,
my favorite preface with those four ending lines.
It has been translated into a memory of the most selfish sex,
but I now dare to know that only selflessness could bring true joy.

So I need to end this, I need to end this war.
Among the blood bathing sword and arrows,
only dried tears shining like diamonds,
on my charcoal colored hands, in my flickering vow.