all chinese are poets

June 12, 2011 § Leave a comment

On most days, I bounce out of bed with the belief that life is magic. Like the air in Carl‘s balloon.

On other days, I feel that air is seeping out of my balloon. And I can’t pump fast enough to keep afloat. On these days, I would open up love in the time of cholera. Randomly. And read: The author of the essay did not doubt that the writer of the sonnet was in fact who he said he was, and he defended him in a straightforward manner, beginning with the title itself: “All Chinese Are Poets.”

Sometimes, Marquez cannot pump fast enough to keep me afloat. So I got to find the leak and patch it up good. On the surface, I know what’s wrong. This person at work has been annoying me. Every day. Even in my dreams. But. Deep down. I know this is not it. When you love a person, you love him despite everything. When you love what you do at work, you love it despite everything. The problem is the loss of love.

I want to believe Nietzsche, to believe that the wish for eternal return is the ultimate affirmation of life, to hold the person that I want to make happy for the rest of my days, to do work that answers my calling … but … perhaps … my calling is to wander. After all, not all those who wander are lost.



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