Saturday, March 15, 2008
I'm basically trying to eat healthy this past few months, currently munching on two pieces of raisin bread and chugging on a bottle of sola apple green tea while auditing...to sustain my sugar level, need energy while working. My voice still sounds funny, hoarse and husky since Wednesday. Anyways, summer's here already and none too soon. I know my GF can't wait to start her vacation, it had been one heck of a busy month for her and she deserves it to have a vacation, I do wish we could do some traveling together before she heads home for the summer. Have some things planned out this summer, including a possibility of taking some lessons on digital photography or some summer classes on classic literature..that would be awesome. Ooopps, lunch time. gotta go.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Friday, March 07, 2008
some minor annoyances
Thank God its Friday already, I'm one of those types who live for the weekends, counting the days till Friday and dreading those Monday blues. After days of listening in to all these calls, my head is ready to explode anytime. I need a breath of fresh air, some good old conversation, a good cup of coffee...need to get back to sanity. Thank God for the weekends.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Gasping for air...
Do you ever get that feeling that you're supposed to be doing something other than what you're doing right now? I do. I've been feeling like a fish out of the water lately, out of place. I have been working in this industry for almost..4 years now. It was just a rush being able to work in an entirely new enviroment from what I'm used to, that is with church, ministry and all that stuff. I remembered going through interviews during some pretty weird hours in the morning, nothings more weirder than getting a call on your cellphone with someone telling you to come up to this floor of that building at 4:am in the morning, 4:00...wow, took a cab from my apartment to makati...it was surreal. everything looked different. I'm used to normal things you know, daylight, sunlight..you get my point. It was like going through another world were people suddenly wear jackets, people live on convenience store food, weird colored drinks.... I thought man this place is weird.! I hated all the people faking and having these weird accent, what the!? Now, several years later, I'm actually one of them. Working as a QA has a lot of perks, you're somewhat like one of the bosses, you can decide who stays, who doesn't..power and yeah, a normal mon to fri sched that doesn't change, the pay is good, better than those white collared folks who decided to work through the "normal" working hours. But now, things are different, I'm getting tired of all this, I'm tired of conversations that doesn't really make sense, where people live from one paycheck to the next, where all you talk about during your spare time is money, more money, credit cards, the latest phones, girls, partys..and yes..more partys. Tiring. I don't want to be a hypocrite, I've been there done all that. But you know what, I think I wasn't really made for this, I think there's something better out there waiting for me. I remember a lot of things you know, a lot of things that I really miss; missions, travelling, talking with real people who care about a lot of things other all the material stuff, I long for sense, for depth and yeah for something real. Maybe its time to turn the key and go back to the normal life, to what I was really created for.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Arguing the Upside of Being Down
Arguing the Upside of Being Down
Eric G. Wilson, author of 'Against Happiness,' argues for the necessity of sadness
author of Against Happiness, argues for the vital need for sadness in the world. Wake Forest University
Read an excerpt from the book.
All Things Considered, February 11, 2008 · Author Eric G. Wilson has come to realize he was born to the blues, and he has made peace with his melancholy state.
But it took some time, as he writes in his new book, a polemic titled Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy.
At the behest of well-meaning friends, I have purchased books on how to be happy. I have tried to turn my chronic scowl into a bright smile. I have attempted to become more active, to get away from my dark house and away from my somber books and participate in the world of meaningful action. … I have contemplated getting a dog. I have started eating salads. I have tried to discipline myself in nodding knowingly. … I have undertaken yoga. I have stopped yoga and gone into tai chi. I have thought of going to psychiatrists and getting some drugs. I have quit all of this and then started again and then once more quit. Now I plan to stay quit. The road to hell is paved with happy plans.
Wilson has embraced his inner gloom, and he wishes more people would do the same.
The English professor at Wake Forest University wants to be clear that he is not "romanticizing" clinical depression and that he believes it is a serious condition that should be treated.
But he worries that today's cornucopia of antidepressants — used to treat even what he calls "mild to moderate sadness" — might make "sweet sorrow" a thing of the past.
"And if that happens, I wonder, what will the future hold? Will our culture become less vital? Will it become less creative?" he asks.
Wilson talks to Melissa Block about why the world needs melancholy — how it pushes people to think about their relation to the world in new ways and ultimately to relate to the world in a richer, deeper way.
He also explores the link between sadness, artistic creation and depression — which has led to suicide in many well-known cases: Virginia Woolf, Vincent Van Gogh, Hart Crane and Ernest Hemingway, for instance.
Wilson says perhaps this is "just part of the tragic nature of existence, that sometimes there's a great price to be paid for great works or beauty, for truth."
"We can look at the lives of Dylan Thomas, Virginia Woolf, Hart Crane and others and lament the fact that they suffered so. Yet at the same time, we're buoyed, we're overjoyed by the works they left behind," Wilson says.
The husband and father of a young daughter also acknowledges that melancholy is "difficult terrain to negotiate in domestic situations." He says there are certainly times when his family hoped he would be "happier," and yet they would not want him to pretend to feel something he doesn't.
Wilson says that by taking his melancholy seriously, his family ultimately will get to know him more deeply and develop a more intimate relationship with him.
"To get to know your partner, your spouse, your friend fully, you really have to find a way to embrace the dark as well as the light. Only then can you know that person," he says.
Excerpt: 'Against Happiness'
by Eric G. Wilson
Cover of 'Against Happiness'
Conclusion
The gene pool — before and beyond time — froths and sloshes. What flops up onto the temporal shores is a matter of chance, a product of the waves' whims. At some point this teeming reservoir of DNA spumes forth a saturnine gene, a double helix destined to produce melancholy dispositions. From this instant onward what we know as human history begins: that striving, seemingly endless, toward an ungraspable perfection, that tragic effort to reach what exceeds the grasp, to fail magnificently. This gene, this melancholy gene, has proved the code for innovation. It has produced over the centuries our resplendent towers, yearning heavenward. It has created our great epics, god-hungry. It has concocted our memorable symphonies, as tumultuously beautiful as the first ocean. Without this sorrowful genome, these sublimities would have remained in the netherworld of nonexistence. Indeed, without this genetic information, sullen and ambitious, what we see as culture in general, that empyreal realm of straining ideas, might have never arisen from the mere quest for survival, from simple killing and eating.
We can picture this in the primitive world. While the healthy bodies of the tribe were out mindlessly hacking beasts or other humans, the melancholy soul remained behind brooding in a cave or under a tree. There he imagined new structures, oval and amber, or fresh verbal rhythms, sacred summonings, or songs superior to even those of the birds. Envisioning these things, and more, this melancholy malingerer became just as useful for his culture as did the hunters and the gatherers for theirs. He pushed his world ahead. He moved it forward. He dwelled always in the insecure realm of the avant-garde.
This primitive visionary was the first of many such avant-garde melancholics. Of course not all innovators are melancholy, and not all melancholy souls are innovative. However, the scientifically proved relationship between genius and depression, between gloom and greatness suggests that the majority of our cultural innovators, ranging from the ancient dreamer in the bush to the more recent Dadaist in the city, have grounded their originality in the melancholy mood. We can of course by now understand why.
Melancholia pushes against the easy "either/or" of the status quo. It thrives in unexplored middle ground between oppositions, in the "both/and." It fosters fresh insights into relationships between oppositions, especially that great polarity life and death. It encourages new ways of conceiving and naming the mysterious connections between antinomies. It returns us to innocence, to irony, that ability, temporary, to play in potential without being constrained to the actual. Such respites from causality refresh our relationship to the world, grant us beautiful vistas, energize our hearts and our minds.
Indeed, the world is much of the time boring, controlled as it is by staid habits. It seems overly familiar, tired, repetitious. Then along comes what Keats calls the melancholy fit, and suddenly the planet again turns interesting. The veil of familiarity falls away. There before us flare bracing possibilities. We are called to forge untested links to our environments. We are summoned to be creative.
Given these virtues of melancholia, why are thousands of psychiatrists and psychologists attempting to "cure" depression as if it were a terrible disease? Obviously, those suffering severe depression, suicidal and bordering on psychosis, require serious medications. But what of those millions of people who possess mild to moderate depression? Should these potential visionaries also be asked to eradicate their melancholia with the help of a pill? Should these possible innovators relinquish what might well be their greatest muse, their demons giving birth to angels?
Right now, if the statistics are correct, about 15 percent of Americans are not happy. Soon, perhaps, with the help of psychopharmaceuticals, we shall have no more unhappy people in our country. Melancholics will become unknown.
This would be an unparalleled tragedy, equivalent in scope to the annihilation of the sperm whale or the golden eagle. With no more melancholics, we would live in a world in which everyone simply accepted the status quo, in which everyone would simply be content with the given. This would constitute a dystopia of ubiquitous placid grins, a nightmare worthy of Philip K. Dick, a police state of Pollyannas, a flatland that offers nothing new under the sun. Why are we pushing toward such a hellish condition?
The answer is simple: fear. Most hide behind the smile because they are afraid of facing the world's complexity, its vagueness, its terrible beauties. If they stay safely ensconced behind their painted grins, then they won't have to encounter the insecurities attendant upon dwelling in possibility, those anxious moments when one doesn't know this from that, when one could suddenly become almost anything at all. Even though this anxiety, usually over death, is in the end exhilarating, a call to be creative, it is in the beginning rather horrifying, a feeling of hovering in an unpredictable abyss. Most immediately flee from this situation. They try to lose themselves in the laughing masses, hoping the anxiety will never again visit them. They don inauthenticity as a mask, a disguise protecting them from the abyss.
To foster a society of total happiness is to concoct a culture of fear. Do we really want to give away our courage for mere mirth? Are we ready to relinquish our most essential hearts for a good night's sleep, a season of contentment? We must ignore the seductions of our blissed-out culture and somehow hold to our sadness. We must find a way, difficult though it is, to be who we are, sullenness and all.
Suffering the gloom, inevitable as breath, we must further accept this fact that the world hates: we are forever incomplete, but fragments of some ungraspable whole. Our unfinished natures — we are never pure actualities but always vague potentials — make life a constant struggle, a bout with the persistent unknown. But this extension into the abyss is also our salvation. To be but a fragment is always to strive for something beyond oneself, something transcendent — an unexplored possibility, an unmapped avenue. This striving is always an act of freedom, of choosing one road instead of another. Though this labor is arduous — it requires constant attention to our mysterious and shifting interiors — it is also ecstatic, an almost infinite sounding of the exquisite riddles of Being.
To be against happiness, to avert contentment, is to be close to joy, to embrace ecstasy. Incompleteness is the call to life. Fragmentation is freedom. The exhilaration of never knowing anything fully is that you can perpetually imagine sublimities beyond reason. On the margins of the known is the agile edge of existence. This is the elation of circumference. This is the rapture, burning slow, of finishing a book that can never be completed, a flawed and conflicted text, vexed as twilight.
Excerpted from Against Happiness by Eric G. Wilson. Copyright © 2008 by Eric G. Wilson. Published in January 2008 by Sarah Crichton Books, a division of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.
Eric G. Wilson, author of 'Against Happiness,' argues for the necessity of sadness
author of Against Happiness, argues for the vital need for sadness in the world. Wake Forest University
Read an excerpt from the book.
All Things Considered, February 11, 2008 · Author Eric G. Wilson has come to realize he was born to the blues, and he has made peace with his melancholy state.
But it took some time, as he writes in his new book, a polemic titled Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy.
At the behest of well-meaning friends, I have purchased books on how to be happy. I have tried to turn my chronic scowl into a bright smile. I have attempted to become more active, to get away from my dark house and away from my somber books and participate in the world of meaningful action. … I have contemplated getting a dog. I have started eating salads. I have tried to discipline myself in nodding knowingly. … I have undertaken yoga. I have stopped yoga and gone into tai chi. I have thought of going to psychiatrists and getting some drugs. I have quit all of this and then started again and then once more quit. Now I plan to stay quit. The road to hell is paved with happy plans.
Wilson has embraced his inner gloom, and he wishes more people would do the same.
The English professor at Wake Forest University wants to be clear that he is not "romanticizing" clinical depression and that he believes it is a serious condition that should be treated.
But he worries that today's cornucopia of antidepressants — used to treat even what he calls "mild to moderate sadness" — might make "sweet sorrow" a thing of the past.
"And if that happens, I wonder, what will the future hold? Will our culture become less vital? Will it become less creative?" he asks.
Wilson talks to Melissa Block about why the world needs melancholy — how it pushes people to think about their relation to the world in new ways and ultimately to relate to the world in a richer, deeper way.
He also explores the link between sadness, artistic creation and depression — which has led to suicide in many well-known cases: Virginia Woolf, Vincent Van Gogh, Hart Crane and Ernest Hemingway, for instance.
Wilson says perhaps this is "just part of the tragic nature of existence, that sometimes there's a great price to be paid for great works or beauty, for truth."
"We can look at the lives of Dylan Thomas, Virginia Woolf, Hart Crane and others and lament the fact that they suffered so. Yet at the same time, we're buoyed, we're overjoyed by the works they left behind," Wilson says.
The husband and father of a young daughter also acknowledges that melancholy is "difficult terrain to negotiate in domestic situations." He says there are certainly times when his family hoped he would be "happier," and yet they would not want him to pretend to feel something he doesn't.
Wilson says that by taking his melancholy seriously, his family ultimately will get to know him more deeply and develop a more intimate relationship with him.
"To get to know your partner, your spouse, your friend fully, you really have to find a way to embrace the dark as well as the light. Only then can you know that person," he says.
Excerpt: 'Against Happiness'
by Eric G. Wilson
Cover of 'Against Happiness'
Conclusion
The gene pool — before and beyond time — froths and sloshes. What flops up onto the temporal shores is a matter of chance, a product of the waves' whims. At some point this teeming reservoir of DNA spumes forth a saturnine gene, a double helix destined to produce melancholy dispositions. From this instant onward what we know as human history begins: that striving, seemingly endless, toward an ungraspable perfection, that tragic effort to reach what exceeds the grasp, to fail magnificently. This gene, this melancholy gene, has proved the code for innovation. It has produced over the centuries our resplendent towers, yearning heavenward. It has created our great epics, god-hungry. It has concocted our memorable symphonies, as tumultuously beautiful as the first ocean. Without this sorrowful genome, these sublimities would have remained in the netherworld of nonexistence. Indeed, without this genetic information, sullen and ambitious, what we see as culture in general, that empyreal realm of straining ideas, might have never arisen from the mere quest for survival, from simple killing and eating.
We can picture this in the primitive world. While the healthy bodies of the tribe were out mindlessly hacking beasts or other humans, the melancholy soul remained behind brooding in a cave or under a tree. There he imagined new structures, oval and amber, or fresh verbal rhythms, sacred summonings, or songs superior to even those of the birds. Envisioning these things, and more, this melancholy malingerer became just as useful for his culture as did the hunters and the gatherers for theirs. He pushed his world ahead. He moved it forward. He dwelled always in the insecure realm of the avant-garde.
This primitive visionary was the first of many such avant-garde melancholics. Of course not all innovators are melancholy, and not all melancholy souls are innovative. However, the scientifically proved relationship between genius and depression, between gloom and greatness suggests that the majority of our cultural innovators, ranging from the ancient dreamer in the bush to the more recent Dadaist in the city, have grounded their originality in the melancholy mood. We can of course by now understand why.
Melancholia pushes against the easy "either/or" of the status quo. It thrives in unexplored middle ground between oppositions, in the "both/and." It fosters fresh insights into relationships between oppositions, especially that great polarity life and death. It encourages new ways of conceiving and naming the mysterious connections between antinomies. It returns us to innocence, to irony, that ability, temporary, to play in potential without being constrained to the actual. Such respites from causality refresh our relationship to the world, grant us beautiful vistas, energize our hearts and our minds.
Indeed, the world is much of the time boring, controlled as it is by staid habits. It seems overly familiar, tired, repetitious. Then along comes what Keats calls the melancholy fit, and suddenly the planet again turns interesting. The veil of familiarity falls away. There before us flare bracing possibilities. We are called to forge untested links to our environments. We are summoned to be creative.
Given these virtues of melancholia, why are thousands of psychiatrists and psychologists attempting to "cure" depression as if it were a terrible disease? Obviously, those suffering severe depression, suicidal and bordering on psychosis, require serious medications. But what of those millions of people who possess mild to moderate depression? Should these potential visionaries also be asked to eradicate their melancholia with the help of a pill? Should these possible innovators relinquish what might well be their greatest muse, their demons giving birth to angels?
Right now, if the statistics are correct, about 15 percent of Americans are not happy. Soon, perhaps, with the help of psychopharmaceuticals, we shall have no more unhappy people in our country. Melancholics will become unknown.
This would be an unparalleled tragedy, equivalent in scope to the annihilation of the sperm whale or the golden eagle. With no more melancholics, we would live in a world in which everyone simply accepted the status quo, in which everyone would simply be content with the given. This would constitute a dystopia of ubiquitous placid grins, a nightmare worthy of Philip K. Dick, a police state of Pollyannas, a flatland that offers nothing new under the sun. Why are we pushing toward such a hellish condition?
The answer is simple: fear. Most hide behind the smile because they are afraid of facing the world's complexity, its vagueness, its terrible beauties. If they stay safely ensconced behind their painted grins, then they won't have to encounter the insecurities attendant upon dwelling in possibility, those anxious moments when one doesn't know this from that, when one could suddenly become almost anything at all. Even though this anxiety, usually over death, is in the end exhilarating, a call to be creative, it is in the beginning rather horrifying, a feeling of hovering in an unpredictable abyss. Most immediately flee from this situation. They try to lose themselves in the laughing masses, hoping the anxiety will never again visit them. They don inauthenticity as a mask, a disguise protecting them from the abyss.
To foster a society of total happiness is to concoct a culture of fear. Do we really want to give away our courage for mere mirth? Are we ready to relinquish our most essential hearts for a good night's sleep, a season of contentment? We must ignore the seductions of our blissed-out culture and somehow hold to our sadness. We must find a way, difficult though it is, to be who we are, sullenness and all.
Suffering the gloom, inevitable as breath, we must further accept this fact that the world hates: we are forever incomplete, but fragments of some ungraspable whole. Our unfinished natures — we are never pure actualities but always vague potentials — make life a constant struggle, a bout with the persistent unknown. But this extension into the abyss is also our salvation. To be but a fragment is always to strive for something beyond oneself, something transcendent — an unexplored possibility, an unmapped avenue. This striving is always an act of freedom, of choosing one road instead of another. Though this labor is arduous — it requires constant attention to our mysterious and shifting interiors — it is also ecstatic, an almost infinite sounding of the exquisite riddles of Being.
To be against happiness, to avert contentment, is to be close to joy, to embrace ecstasy. Incompleteness is the call to life. Fragmentation is freedom. The exhilaration of never knowing anything fully is that you can perpetually imagine sublimities beyond reason. On the margins of the known is the agile edge of existence. This is the elation of circumference. This is the rapture, burning slow, of finishing a book that can never be completed, a flawed and conflicted text, vexed as twilight.
Excerpted from Against Happiness by Eric G. Wilson. Copyright © 2008 by Eric G. Wilson. Published in January 2008 by Sarah Crichton Books, a division of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.
ABout the new look
BTW, yeah new colors huh? Just some kind of test period, I'm gonna change it to something more earth toned this week. It looks to cheerful..not my personality. Can't wait to go home and get some shuteye..say hello to the sandman.
Valentines? Whats that?
I'm seeing blood all around, I mean red. All these cutesy wutesey cupid cutouts, flower vendors cashing in on their ultra priced flowers 3k for a dozen roses? the heck! what gives man!? and yeah all the lubsy dubsey couples all around..sheesh. Me? I'm at work and yeah looking forward to getting some sleep when I get home. Hopefully I'll be in a better mood when I wake up.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Monday scribble
With all the audits done for January, I decided to start writing away on this blog. This past week has been amazing..that is an understatement believe me. I wish I could just explain in detail everything that has happened, its mindblowing and believe me I am still reeling from all of it. I'm not exaggerating. So here I am, typing away at work with this huge smile...I'm not sure if you're getting all this.. Thank God for new beginnings. Thank God for a fresh start.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Ah, the 90's, the good ol' days. The lyrics to one of my favorite poster songs of my younger years, from one of my favorite bands of all time. yeah..those were the days. (lol) I still think Glen Phillips' voice still rocks!
Check out their homepage, yup, bring on the mem'ries.. http://www.toadthewetsprocket.com/
Walk On The Ocean
(Toad the Wet Sprocket)
We spotted the ocean at the head of the trail
Where are we going, so far away
And somebody told me that this is the place
Where everythings better, everythings safe
Walk on the ocean
Step on the stones
Flesh becomes water
Wood becomes bone
And half and hour later we packed up our things
We said wed send letters and all those little things
And they knew we were lying but they smiled just the same
It seemed theyd already forgotten wed came
Now were back at the homestead
Where the air makes you choke
And people dont know you
And trust is a joke
We dont even have pictures
Just memories to hold
That grow sweeter each season
As we slowly grow old
Check out their homepage, yup, bring on the mem'ries.. http://www.toadthewetsprocket.com/
Walk On The Ocean
(Toad the Wet Sprocket)
We spotted the ocean at the head of the trail
Where are we going, so far away
And somebody told me that this is the place
Where everythings better, everythings safe
Walk on the ocean
Step on the stones
Flesh becomes water
Wood becomes bone
And half and hour later we packed up our things
We said wed send letters and all those little things
And they knew we were lying but they smiled just the same
It seemed theyd already forgotten wed came
Now were back at the homestead
Where the air makes you choke
And people dont know you
And trust is a joke
We dont even have pictures
Just memories to hold
That grow sweeter each season
As we slowly grow old
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Ghost, goblins and the supernatural...this was the center of conversation during our "15 minute yosi breaks" here at the office. Everybody does believe in this sort of of stuff one way or the other, its quite amusing really, to see grownup still talk about "tiktiks", "aswangs" "blacklady" hahaha, I really can't stop myself from laughing while writing this, but oh well, it makes more interesting talks.
Rewind: Past few days has been aweful, not sleeping well. I'm not sure if it's just my insomnia kicking in again. My mind just goes on overdrive during the wee hours of the morning, it seems to have a mind of itself (tongue in cheeck) I just have to relax and stop thinking about certain things, my overly negative, pessimistic side rears its ugly head all over again. Maybe a trip to some far flung country away from all this mumbo jumbo, complicated world that I live in might do the trick...I wonder if a trip to tibet might do the trick. Kidding. Not kidding. No, really I'm kidding.
Rewind: Past few days has been aweful, not sleeping well. I'm not sure if it's just my insomnia kicking in again. My mind just goes on overdrive during the wee hours of the morning, it seems to have a mind of itself (tongue in cheeck) I just have to relax and stop thinking about certain things, my overly negative, pessimistic side rears its ugly head all over again. Maybe a trip to some far flung country away from all this mumbo jumbo, complicated world that I live in might do the trick...I wonder if a trip to tibet might do the trick. Kidding. Not kidding. No, really I'm kidding.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
I refuse to be ordinary, to dive in to this mundane lifeless ordinary. Waking up each day, I rage, I go against this dispassionate enclave, people passing me by with sleepless eyes, zombies living their day to day life but without really living, dreamless...There is more to this life than what they say, there is more to my life than what my generation is claiming to believe. There is more to this life than living from one paycheck to the next, there is more to this life than sex, money and parties. I wanna shout out, I wanna rage against this flow, I wanna live each day as if it was my last. I wanna live my life with significance, with purpose, with honor.
"Awakening"
Face down with the LA curbside endings
With the ones and zeros.
Downtown was the perfect place to hide.
The first star that I saw last night was a headlight
Of a man-made sky, but man- made never made our dreams collide,
Collide.
Here we are now with the falling sky and the rain,
We're awakening
Here we are now with our desperate youth and the pain,
We're awakening
Maybe it's called ambition, you've been talking in your sleep
About a dream, we're awakening
Last week found me living for nothing but deadlines,
With my dead beat sky but, this town doesn't look the same tonight
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
And in all my life I don't know that I ever felt so alive,
Alive
I want to wake up kicking and screaming
I want to wake up kicking and screaming
I want to know that my heart's still beating
It's beating,
I'm bleeding
I want to wake up kicking and screaming
I want to live like I know what I'm leaving
I want to know that my heart's still beating
It's beating... it's beating...
I'm bleeding
Music Video CodesMyspace Music
"Awakening"
Face down with the LA curbside endings
With the ones and zeros.
Downtown was the perfect place to hide.
The first star that I saw last night was a headlight
Of a man-made sky, but man- made never made our dreams collide,
Collide.
Here we are now with the falling sky and the rain,
We're awakening
Here we are now with our desperate youth and the pain,
We're awakening
Maybe it's called ambition, you've been talking in your sleep
About a dream, we're awakening
Last week found me living for nothing but deadlines,
With my dead beat sky but, this town doesn't look the same tonight
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
And in all my life I don't know that I ever felt so alive,
Alive
I want to wake up kicking and screaming
I want to wake up kicking and screaming
I want to know that my heart's still beating
It's beating,
I'm bleeding
I want to wake up kicking and screaming
I want to live like I know what I'm leaving
I want to know that my heart's still beating
It's beating... it's beating...
I'm bleeding
Music Video CodesMyspace Music
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
sixtwelveAM Jan one
First day Jan one, everybody's all chillin', nobody seems to be in the usual work mode here at QA, no work later tonight, everybody's all sleeping and stuff..haha. Just listening to music and watching Youtube. I can't wait to hit the sack when I get home. Currently groovin' to Mario's "How Do I Breath", I sure do miss someone like crazy right now, you know who you are(wink)...sure can't wait to see you soon.
12:37 08
It's officially 2008 ladies and gentlemen! back at my desk, a large box of Yellow Cab behind me, two cans of soda and the company of the rest of the QA guys. We had such a blast back at the floor during the countdown, everybody tooting their horns, hugs everywhere, even our usually serious GM got into all the fun. So whats next? I mean for this year? Well I'm real sure 08 is going to be a blast! exciting things happenin' and yep I am reading for it. Saving up for a big project this year (wink).
I'll write later, my throats kinda sore from all the shouting. Happy New Year everyone.
I'll write later, my throats kinda sore from all the shouting. Happy New Year everyone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)