Saturday, February 03, 2007
It's all in the clouds; 
the sunset which i caught after missing the one on thursday.the clouds were thick and overcast, hence i couldnt see it after it set, which was pretty sad, but oh wells! the cloud shadows are cool.
the sunset i caught whilst on the chairlift at sentosa!prettyy.the whole sky was fiery, but not before turning shades of purple-pink (:
before it set! from the chairlift.i like the way the sunlight glints of the sea.
from cloudwatching.i think the cloud on the right's quite unique cos it's like pointy!it looks like an angel fish to meeee.
the clouds i drew.which took damn long.it kinda looks like cotton wool, but ah.clouds are cottony, yes?so yea, my heads been in the clouds for quite awhile.haha, i realised on friday that the school's rooftop netball court is good good for cloud watching.i'll see if i still needa do clouds on wednesday.updated my friendster photos, finallllyyyy.and i've had For you I Will stuck in my head.if i could dim the lights of the mall and creat a mood, i would.shout out your name so it echos in every room.yeaaa.i think this is a lovely poem.really.The Art of Poetry
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
Jorge Luis Borges
i feel so inspired now.way to go.
sprinkled in glitter.
12:34 PM
