I saw light in the end of a tunnel,
delightfully, within a second
I thought I could get rid of the dark.
I was filled with hope,
but then immediately,
I realised, sympathetically, 
that it's just an injured firefly,
lying there,
nearly breathless,
waiting for sb to save it...
I stretched out my hand,
yet hurt by the heat and light it gives out.
I sighed and left...
still in that spookily dark, endlessly long tunnel.
 

Picking books at my shelf is like picking wild berries in the field - of all different sorts, bittersweet, enrichingly real and satisfying, 'down-to-Earth' but too 'high-in-the-air'.

"It is almost a universal law that the extent of egocentrism in any person is proportionate to the amount of pain in him/her."
- Fr. John Powell, S.J.

I am never wise in choosing which book to buy and bring home (and shelve up). they are either, as said, from the prescribed reading list of my school, or a despicable, impulsive binge-purchase at book fairs, or an excuse-less wander in bookstores where I went "oh-this-I've-heard-of-let-me-get-it" at the "international bestsellers" that I thought I would enjoy as much as those who have boosted them up the chart.

Neither am I a wise reader. Given I even seldom read these days (or rather, years). Perhaps only berry-pick now. And from time to time encountering surprises :)

When we are too into a thing, we get lost. When we are too into a person, we get hurt. How prone is men, to derangement, by and of our own mentality. 

Hence I step back. A step backward, to scrutinize the surroundings, the happenings, the within. Re-examine and reconcile. Not saying we have to cut the tyings of all our attachments - after all, no matter how I wished, or not, man is not alone; man can merely not be an island of itself - but the dagger is for swimming through the maze of intertwining twines, to sort out, untie but not dissecting them bluntly apart. 

I'm trying to take a helicopter view of all things. Things I love and hate. Stay discreet. (as a self-protection mechanism?) But how, can I love and hate one single thing, and not to extract some intoxicating pain from such ambivalence? 

Being a single child I've long learnt the detriments that being the centre of attention of a family brings. Taking medicine I've long learnt the yawning big mouth of knowledge that we all unknowingly fall into and futilely strive to come out of. Whilst men's intrinsic drive is to seek intimacy, hence attachment, love and passion etc, what we all need, from time to time is detachment. 

Although sometimes I find myself too-detached a person. and never ask why.

(goosh, how long I have not written a prose in English. my words are flying away me; only the raw, crude-sounding, and aesthetically-unabridged ones stayed. and how I detest that.)