Baby: The beauty of being

Having a newborn so close to me everyday got me wondering...

Doesn't he get bored? The sleeping, waking, feeding, changing of diapers, showering, changing clothes... and the cycle repeats itself. A friend said that it is all that is expected of him at this stage. And it is enough.

I wondered how it would be if I were to do that. Before anyone can admonish me, I think I would yank my hair in restlessness. I would need to DO something, doing something to make me feel alive. I suppose I could only define myself from what I do, and not who I am. Somewhere along the way of years, I forgot how it is like to Be. And the race began to Do.

It is sad, really. I don't mean I should just sleep and eat and shower all the days of my life. But I wish to do something because I know who I am, not because I want to be something.

And when all is taken away, my works, my doings, I hope I can be as contented as the newborn, safe in the knowledge that just Being is enough.

Sputterings of the sick

To have money, but not time; then time, but not strength; then strength, but time to make money. Vicious cycle of the sick.

Is it time not to be slave to any?

let's go

i don't mind going if there is a place to go.

that's always the issue, isn't it. because we'd never really know. but at least, do know what i want?

restless

in search of sanity, or insanity, whichever will make me feel better.

common sense, i don't know what is that, or how it is made. ever changing, so its never common.

restlessness is a very apt word.

here and there

doesn't mind doesn't mean doesn't matter.

one of the things i came to learn through a friend.

and, loving someone and wanting to protect them may not make them happy.

i am still bothered. when and how will this change?

passion, elusive

beneath the pile of 'realities', obligations and shoulds, lie passion, barely breathing. waiting, that one day you would acknowledge it, say it is real and let it live again.

right now, it is injured beyond recognition, and i wonder.. would it die, and never come back? and this fear could drive me further from it, the fear of losing it.

does everyone have a passion? are they born with it? and along the way something triggered it. is it like that?

the things i once believed i love; i'm not so sure anymore. again and again, i wonder if i'm good enough in what i like, and if i'm not, will i persevere? do we need talent and perseverance to birth passion?

to die or live.

it's intriguing.

how sometimes you would die for someone, but not live with them.