Posted by me from ? (22.214.171.124) on Thursday, February 28, 2002 at 7:25PM :
In Reply to: Method In Madness posted by pancho from ? (126.96.36.199) on Wednesday, February 27, 2002 at 8:28PM :
: Flourishes of wit and tears satisfy you...and no one else.
that's obvious. ask yourself: why do tears exist? there is NOTHING wrong with tears. they are natural.
you are trying to make the argument that tears => weakness. how original!!! rather: how "masculine" (how pathetic). does context play any role in how you think of someone's tears? or are ALL tears evil? should we all repress our emotions & try to be as stoic as possible for the sake of appearances? who is desiring fakery?
you speak as though you ALWAYS write with intent. sometimes this appears to be true... for all those "other" times: hindsight is 20/20 (you interpret as if you had "intent" - i question whether or not this REALLY is the case).
from Gibran's "The Madman" - my favorite work by him.
When my sorrow was born I nursed it with care, and watched over it with loving tenderness.
And my Sorrow grew like all living things, strong and beautiful and full of wondrous delights.
And we loved one another, my Sorrow and I, and we loved the world about us; for Sorrow had a kindly heart and mine was kindly with Sorrow.
Amd when we conversed, my Sorrow and I, our days were winged and our nights were girdled with dreams; for Sorrow had an eloquent tongue, and mine was eloquent with Sorrow.
And when we sang together, my Sorrow and I, our neghbors sat at their windows and listenend; for our songs were deep as the sea and our melodies were full of strange memories.
And when we walked together, my Sorrow and I, people gazed at us with gentle eyes and whispered in words of exceeding sweetness. And there were those who looked with envy upon us, for Sorrow was a noble thing and I was proud with Sorrow.
But my Sorrow died, like all living things, and alone I am left to muse and ponder.
And now when I speak my words fall heavily upon my ears.
And when I sing my songs my neighbours come not to listen.
And when I walk the streets no one looks at me.
Only in my sleep I hear voices saying in pity, "See, there lies the man whose Sorrow is dead."
-- signature .
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