I live to bid my friends goodbye.
I live to hear and sing, to dance and make merry.
I live to believe, and to disbelieve and cry.
I live to sigh, and watch the fluffy clouds go by.
I live to write, letters stained with blood and tears.
I live to work, grinding down years after years.
I live to pay my taxes, and to spend my money.
I live to be owed to, and be indebted to in return.
But most importantly,
I live to watch the sun rise, and the curtains come down.
I live to bid my friends goodbye.
Well... unforgettable you are.
:)
Me
There are two sides to me. Sides that were always readily apparent, but only came to clear focus today, while watching the remarkable local drama Holland V.
Empathized with the strong love Xiaoxin had for JingJing, struggled with the pervading sense of cruel fate, and destiny, fought in my mind, the dizzying feelings of foreknowledge, and the strict spiral into what is a rapidly untenable, undesirable position. All that happened in this episode resonates especially strongly with me, because these are all themes that I've been struggling with ever since my youth. Ever since I could think, ever since I could feel.
There are two sides to me. A side that feels more strongly than any other, that is emphathetic, that forces me into people's shoes, and gives me a glimpse into their psyche. It is the side that seperates us from animals. Because only man can attempt to feel for other people, only man has the capacity to put themselves in other people's shoes. And sometimes, I have the ability to almost see from a person's eyes, when I want to.
The other side of me is the predominant side. The ever pervasive force of logic and intuition, that plays logical parent to the emotional child in me. It keeps the emotional side in check, keeps the depressing feelings, the sense that life isn't really worth living if it looks that bad from my perspective. The side that rationalizes my thoughts. Brings logic into the equation, shows me that cold calculating consideration that my other half can never appreciate nor understand nor feel. But heeds anyway, because hey, if it's good enough for science, it's good enough for me. This other side of me keeps me alive. Keeps me sane.
But it all turned when faced with a really good piece of drama. How could such drama, such carefully planned manipulation of my emotions occur if the person who wrote the script did not run the same scene through his head many many times? For every second of pain and anguish, hurt and disgust I felt at watching the show, how many of hours of thought and effort were spent by that one or two scriptwriters and directors, and how many minutes of absolute hell acting that out by the actors and actresses? It seems almost unthinkable, that there is a man out there, that plays and replays the most heartwrenching of scenes, and notes it down, almost detachedly, while undergoing all the emotional torment. Like in literature, where we ask the same questions as readers.
How does the character feel deep inside? Why does he do what he does? What do others feel about his actions?
There is masochistic pleasure in writing an emotional piece of work. On the one hand, it helps you understand your emotions better, and to better manipulate the emotions of others. On the other hand, the work is painful. The work is depressing. The work hurts. And worse, you can not hide under the screen of logic. Not if you hope to sway a much more cynical audience. It is a ripping out of your own heart, and showing the world what it is made of, but never ever acknowledged for your efforts. Not that you'd want any one to know of course, that all these events were there right inside your psyche.
