In my next life I want to live my life backwards. You
start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you
wake up in an old people's home feeling better every
day. You get kicked out for being too healthy, go
collect your pension, and then when you start work,
you get a gold watch and a party on your first day.
You work for 40 years until you're young enough to
enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and
are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high
school. You then go to primary school, you become a
kid, you play. You have no responsibilities, you
become a baby until you are born. And then you spend
your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa like
conditions with central heating and room service on
tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila! You
finish off as an orgasm! I rest my cases.
- Woody Allen
From the inside out, these are my layers: bad, good, bad, good and now- new - bad again. They attach beneath my skin, nested one inside the other like Matryoshka dolls, anchored with a pin through each skull at the top. They ring like a bell, scream and peal, complain, when layers and outsides clash. Beneath the layers, there is nothing: unbounded emptiness like the equation of the universe inverted so that one equals zero.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
The Road Less Travelled
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
- Robert Frost, 1916
have I taken that road? or have I gone down the other way?
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