tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21891861741415822112024-03-13T17:21:24.211-07:00All We Have Is NowKylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-49009608112924976032011-06-24T02:26:00.001-07:002011-06-24T02:28:27.484-07:00New tumblr!The time is here! I've finally gotten a new tumblr. It is here: <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://xezene.tumblr.com/"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">threnody</span></a>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-40821606567898360172011-06-22T15:27:00.000-07:002011-06-22T15:28:00.636-07:00Shadows<div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;">How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not? </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;"> How came ye muffled in so hush a mask? </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;">Was it a silent deep-disguisèd plot </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;"> To steal away, and leave without a task </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;"> My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour; </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;"> The blissful cloud of summer-indolence </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;">Benumb’d my eyes; my pulse grew less and less; </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;"> Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s wreath no flower: </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;"> O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense </div> <div style="text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em;">Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">John Keats</span><br /></div>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-10415850539197414352011-06-05T18:15:00.000-07:002011-06-05T18:16:06.725-07:00YouthIt takes a long time to become young.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pablo Picasso</span>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-54220814303479489242011-06-04T14:01:00.000-07:002011-06-04T14:16:17.568-07:00Insight<b>Well, we're grasping for two things at once. Partly for communion with others — that's the deepest instinct in us. And partly, we're seeking security. By constant communion with others we hope we shall be able to accept the horrible fact of our total solitude.</b> We're always reaching out for new projects, new structure, new systems in order to abolish — partly or wholly — our insight into our loneliness. If it weren't so, religious systems would never arise.<br /><br /><b>To the fanatical believer physical and spiritual suffering is beside the point, compared with salvation. That is why, to him, everything happening around him is irrelevant, a mirror-image, a mere will-o'-the-wisp. ... I can really never get shot of them, the fanatics. Whether they appear as religious fanatics or vegetarian fanatics makes no odds. They're catastrophic people.</b> These types whose whole cast of mind as it were looks beyond mere human beings toward some unknown goal. The terrible thing is the great power they often wield over their fellow human beings. Apart from the fact that I believe they suffer like the very devil, I've no sympathy for them.<br /><br />No one is safe from religious ideas and confessional phenomena. Neither you nor I. We can fall victim to them when we least expect it. It's like Mao flu, or being struck by lightning. You're utterly helpless. Exposed. As I see it today, any relapse is utterly out of the question. But I can't say it's out of the question tomorrow.<br /><br />The film (<span style="font-style: italic;">Winter Light</span>) is based on something I'd actually experienced. Something a clergyman up in Dalarna told me: the story of the suicide, the fisherman Persson. One day the clergyman had tried to talk to him; the next, Persson had hanged himself. For the clergyman it was a personal catastrophe.<br /><br /><b>People think there's a solution... If everything is distributed in the proper quarters, put into the right pigeonholes, everything will be fine. But I'm not so sure. ... Nothing, absolutely nothing at all has emerged out of all these ideas of faith and scepticism, all these convulsions, these puffings and blowings.</b> For many of my fellow human beings on the other hand, I'm aware that these problems still exist — and exist as a terrible reality. I hope this generation will be the last to live under the scourge of religious anxiety.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ingmar Bergman</span>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-78943533544071339652011-06-02T12:30:00.000-07:002011-06-02T12:31:28.640-07:00PersonaI understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being - not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a lie, every smile a grimace. Suicide? No, too vulgar. But you can refuse to move, refuse to talk, so that you don't have to lie. You can shut yourself in. Then you needn't play any parts or make wrong gestures. Or so you thought. But reality is diabolical. Your hiding place isn't watertight. Life trickles in from the outside, and you're forced to react. No one asks if it is true or false, if you're genuine or just a sham. Such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either. I understand why you don't speak, why you don't move, why you've created a part for yourself out of apathy. I understand. I admire. You should go on with this part until it is played out, until it loses interest for you. Then you can leave it, just as you've left your other parts one by one.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ingmar Bergman, Persona</span>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-59317501521733051292011-06-01T20:29:00.000-07:002011-06-01T20:30:04.146-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn9PVjoiYVst80COlSspjiF1kxZgiPoL09kLo_zmOmOaY9M4j3PcjZoWhizSqhiawuEI6d6xA-y8ycIoWSEuIW7pqVPNA9-kkDUz1aVmRwRsjjnvu8S0kSPUkJTCE_s_8uVfwIOK0cX6Q/s1600/spilliaert.staircase.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 405px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn9PVjoiYVst80COlSspjiF1kxZgiPoL09kLo_zmOmOaY9M4j3PcjZoWhizSqhiawuEI6d6xA-y8ycIoWSEuIW7pqVPNA9-kkDUz1aVmRwRsjjnvu8S0kSPUkJTCE_s_8uVfwIOK0cX6Q/s1600/spilliaert.staircase.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-87234498400237044022011-05-30T20:39:00.000-07:002011-05-30T20:42:54.820-07:00Under Dogen's Teachings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJQ65BYizpqs_Bo-HobS3MVKqoixZeWSBAFvNbIPs2LA8U9gPbKhKEZtCWrq1rhHEi-lxfnsHgyYQbUDX4c1DdpjhKgYBWpahqy4fMAquDIDIoksTLQqF46cR4h05YEFfejftOO2gHZA/s1600/dogen_pool_142204207_std.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 391px; height: 312px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJQ65BYizpqs_Bo-HobS3MVKqoixZeWSBAFvNbIPs2LA8U9gPbKhKEZtCWrq1rhHEi-lxfnsHgyYQbUDX4c1DdpjhKgYBWpahqy4fMAquDIDIoksTLQqF46cR4h05YEFfejftOO2gHZA/s1600/dogen_pool_142204207_std.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Under Dogen's teachings, I meditate. I sit under the bright moon and all that I have done. And nothing but a mere breath has left me. But perhaps...perhaps I feel that what is to leave me is so much more. What is to leave me is everything.<br /><br />If only, if only.Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-53087099608563750372011-05-24T19:42:00.001-07:002011-05-29T02:47:23.735-07:00Cows<p>One day the Buddha was sitting in the wood with thirty or forty monks. They had an excellent lunch and they were enjoying the company of each other. There was a farmer passing by and the farmer was very unhappy. He asked the Buddha and the monks whether they had seen his cows passing by. The Buddha said they had not seen any cows passing by. </p> <p>The farmer said, "Monks, I'm so unhappy. I have twelve cows and I don't know why they all ran away. I have also a few acres of a sesame seed plantation and the insects have eaten up everything. I suffer so much I think I am going to kill myself." </p> <p>The Buddha said, "My friend, we have not seen any cows passing by here. You might like to look for them in the other direction." </p> <p>So the farmer thanked him and ran away, and the Buddha turned to his monks and said, "My dear friends, you are the happiest people in the world. You don't have any cows to lose. If you have too many cows to take care of, you will be very busy. </p> <p>"That is why, in order to be happy, you have to learn the art of cow releasing (laughter). You release the cows one by one. In the beginning you thought that those cows were essential to your happiness, and you tried to get more and more cows.But now you realize that cows are not really conditions for your happiness; they constitute an obstacle for your happiness. That is why you are determined to release your cows." </p>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-61123464115613756602011-05-23T22:21:00.001-07:002011-05-23T22:21:47.445-07:00<span style="font-family:Century Gothic;">Chattering finch and water-fly<br />Are not merrier than I;<br />Here among the flowers I lie<br />Laughing everlastingly.<br />No: I may not tell the best;<br />Surely, friends, I might have guessed<br />Death was but the good King's jest,<br />It was hid so carefully.</span>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-90569175705659922132011-05-15T19:16:00.001-07:002011-05-15T19:16:56.703-07:00<strong>The mind is its own place, and in itself </strong> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Can make a Heav’n out of Hell,</strong></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>a Hell of Heav’n</strong></p>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-89834180484962790392011-05-14T12:39:00.000-07:002011-05-14T12:40:33.346-07:00<span style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:Bookman Old Style;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);">"</span></span><span style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:Bookman Old Style;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);">W</span></span><span style="font-family: arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:Bookman Old Style;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);">e carry our past with us, to wit, the primitive and inferior man with his desires and emotions, and it is only with an enormous effort that we can detach ourselves from this burden. If it comes to a neurosis, we invariably have to deal with a considerably intensified shadow. And if such a person wants to be cured it is necessary to find a way in which his conscious personality and his shadow can live together."</span></span>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-34794474449972145522011-05-13T09:59:00.000-07:002011-05-13T10:00:36.754-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBvWnnpH1VKo-2w07TxdVy5TwzNnsDVTYhf3NRknKSe2Sqnjz7_ArY2wbLTtERPimykQ1hV1JxERnyyJgbqzhzp5JfLl8zlGSsRJ-Fg0HHVK4kGnTOrlyE67Fz8bmFfk6n8cTjIYAK_8/s1600/100_6098.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBvWnnpH1VKo-2w07TxdVy5TwzNnsDVTYhf3NRknKSe2Sqnjz7_ArY2wbLTtERPimykQ1hV1JxERnyyJgbqzhzp5JfLl8zlGSsRJ-Fg0HHVK4kGnTOrlyE67Fz8bmFfk6n8cTjIYAK_8/s320/100_6098.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606246721387868850" border="0" /></a>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-77199390657813773902011-05-07T14:56:00.001-07:002011-05-07T14:57:19.180-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnF67WDO_3y-jAn2VciKxoVN8yr5pV1PskkgCVdfA8UVgGQ6fMvB93Vz9jTudAp1Bhx8xl7mq2IOxi_15_H7NsDIEabzT3OgAEdbkd84K0e0y3S2IH9DXDvF5tbSK4Uad6AonAqMMXforG/s1600/harry+potter.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 337px; height: 434px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnF67WDO_3y-jAn2VciKxoVN8yr5pV1PskkgCVdfA8UVgGQ6fMvB93Vz9jTudAp1Bhx8xl7mq2IOxi_15_H7NsDIEabzT3OgAEdbkd84K0e0y3S2IH9DXDvF5tbSK4Uad6AonAqMMXforG/s1600/harry+potter.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-39664454033014762792011-05-07T02:57:00.001-07:002011-05-07T02:57:40.048-07:00LifeThe life of [a] man is a dubious experiment. It is a tremendous phenomenon only in numerical terms. Individually, it is so fleeting, so insufficient, that it is literally a miracle that anything can exist and develop at all.<br /><br />Life has always seemed to me like a plant that lives on its rhizome. Its true life is invisible, hidden in the rhizome. The part that appears above ground lasts only a single summer. Then it withers away -- an ephemeral apparition. When we think of the unending growth and decay of life and civilizations, we cannot escape the impression of absolute nullity. Yet I have never lost a sense of something that lives and endures underneath the eternal flux. What we see is the blossom, which passes. The rhizome remains.<br /><br />In the end the only events in my life worth telling are those when the imperishable world irrupted into this transitory one. All other memories of travels, people, and my surroundings have paled beside these interior happenings. Many people have participated in the story of our times and written about it; if the reader wants an account of that, let him turn to them or get somebody to tell it to him. Recollection of the outward events of my life has largely faded or disappeared. But my encounters with the "other" reality, my bouts with the unconscious, are indelibly engraved upon my memory. In that realm there has always been wealth in abundance, and everything else has lost importance by comparison.<br /><br />-- <i>Carl Jung</i>, <i>"Memories, Dreams, Reflections"</i>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-73053709644369212562011-05-04T02:23:00.000-07:002011-05-04T02:25:51.484-07:00Just Standing<p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >Once there were three people who took a walk in the country. They happened to see a man standing</span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > on a hill. One of them said, "I guess he is standing on a hill to search for lost cattle."</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > "No," the second said, "I think he is trying to find a friend who has wandered off somewhere."</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > Whereas the third said,"No, he is simply enjoying the summer breeze."</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > As there was no definite conclusion, they went up the hill and asked him,"Are you searching for strayed cattle?"</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > "No," he replied.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > "Are you looking for your friend?"</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > "No," again.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > "Are you enjoying the cool breeze?"</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > "No," yet again.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > "Then why are you standing on the hill?"</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > "I am just standing" was the answer.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style=""><br /></span> </p>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-42964321632559139122011-05-01T16:41:00.001-07:002011-05-01T16:41:14.405-07:00DimaThe light's inside my cave<br />I'm tired of my caveKylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-53940398603119000652011-04-23T21:24:00.000-07:002011-04-23T21:25:10.495-07:00Watching the reel as it comes to a close<br /> Brutally taking its time<br /> People who change for no reason at all<br /> Happening all of the time<br /> Can I go on with this train of events?<br /> Disturbing and purging my mind<br /> Back out of my duties, when all's said and done<br /> I know that I'll lose every time.Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-82779675353978928132011-04-23T07:36:00.000-07:002011-04-23T07:37:04.334-07:00Love is only realWhen shared!Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-8272542197090599292011-04-19T20:42:00.000-07:002011-04-19T20:43:36.112-07:00Chop wood, carry water"Before Enlightenment chop wood, carry water.<br />After Enlightenment, chop wood, carry water."Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-7089532973173023902011-04-18T15:05:00.001-07:002011-04-18T15:06:07.093-07:00LossIt all hurts so very, very much.<br /><br />Recovering.Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-26291307719264292432011-04-12T16:53:00.001-07:002011-04-12T16:55:12.601-07:00The Veil<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="360" height="240" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6Tt4Hp4MkUU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />"There's always this veil. That's why we like a striptease. Because, there's an implication, that you should never give the show completely away. There's always got to be a little bit of a veil left. There always is. Because even if you find the striptease artist gets completely naked, there's really something hidden. What's the motivation? What sort of a person is she? Would I really like to embrace her? Or would she have bad breath? [laughter]<br /><br />You know? Or something. You never really know. You never really get to the bottom. That's why all men poets say that women are basically mysterious. And they ought to be! So are men, basically, mysterious. From women's point of view. Although they play that they're not. See, this is the way that it goes: men are supposed to be very open and they say, “Well,” of a certain situation, “this is the way it is, after all, it's perfectly rational, it's a matter of practical affairs.” And women say, “Well, I'm not as articulate as you are, but I know there's something you've left out but I can't explain it.”<br /><br />And by this means, everything is kept going. [laughter]"Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-88481638017925459822011-04-10T22:08:00.000-07:002011-04-10T22:09:04.207-07:00<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="360" height="240" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/LgYL2jwE1H0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-7734732338898360022011-04-05T23:47:00.001-07:002011-04-18T15:01:49.506-07:00"The truth that many people never understand, until it is too late, is that the more you try to avoid suffering the more you suffer because smaller and more insignificant things begin to torture you in proportion to your fear of being hurt." --<span style="font-style: italic;"> Thomas Merton</span>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-23905655063135959792011-04-01T16:35:00.000-07:002011-04-01T16:38:22.877-07:00Ryōkan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_w8KQfG50rCcduNuEIPc6YZY3iCSCCGpPAY9EHbdQ-Z-o7DaFjmn4l2iVVjAOcgq-vo1yoja7qRdZn7tJJUhGKDZPLsk2GLyyzMsaQRP8cig5G1Bqo5EybXOo8-tW-8E4GVwt_NI9KQ/s1600/100_6047.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_w8KQfG50rCcduNuEIPc6YZY3iCSCCGpPAY9EHbdQ-Z-o7DaFjmn4l2iVVjAOcgq-vo1yoja7qRdZn7tJJUhGKDZPLsk2GLyyzMsaQRP8cig5G1Bqo5EybXOo8-tW-8E4GVwt_NI9KQ/s400/100_6047.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590763620262090114" /></a><br />"I watch people in the world<br />Throw away their lives lusting after things,<br />Never able to satisfy their desires,<br />Falling into deeper despair<br />And torturing themselves.<br />Even if they get what they want<br />How long will they be able to enjoy it?<br />For one heavenly pleasure<br />They suffer ten torments of hell,<br />Binding themselves more firmly to the grindstone.<br />Such people are like monkeys<br />Frantically grasping for the moon in the water<br />And then falling into a whirlpool.<br />How endlessly those caught up in the floating world suffer.<br />Despite myself, I fret over them all night<br />And cannot staunch my flow of tears."<br /><br />---<br /><br />"Like the little stream<br />Making its way<br />Through the mossy crevices<br />I, too, quietly<br />Turn clear and transparent."<br /><br />---<br /><br />"Where beauty is, then there is ugliness;<br />where right is, also there is wrong.<br />Knowledge and ignorance are interdependent;<br />delusion and enlightenment condition each other.<br />Since olden times it has been so.<br />How could it be otherwise now?<br />Wanting to get rid of one and grab the other<br />is merely realizing a scene of stupidity.<br />Even if you speak of the wonder of it all,<br />how do you deal with each thing changing?"<br /><br />---<br /><br />"Though I think not<br />To think about it,<br />I do think about it<br />And shed tears<br />Thinking about it."<br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ry%C5%8Dkan">+</a>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2189186174141582211.post-17211071589902081222011-03-29T15:06:00.000-07:002011-03-29T15:42:35.844-07:00Sensitivity<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi94Rdb_DXkLEnHWIj0iyC_Td2ZlmxlaFpqii-T8Oxsq2YP714i0UjAzSU6DBAWxR-k9_p5W6oWSv7dC8gZ0hhnAuWj0IDq5xyrb1SYuUskhoehA37yC1a0xuRGj84rmXY2Tz-ZPRrDuoo/s1600/100_6049.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi94Rdb_DXkLEnHWIj0iyC_Td2ZlmxlaFpqii-T8Oxsq2YP714i0UjAzSU6DBAWxR-k9_p5W6oWSv7dC8gZ0hhnAuWj0IDq5xyrb1SYuUskhoehA37yC1a0xuRGj84rmXY2Tz-ZPRrDuoo/s400/100_6049.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589629887110966994" /></a><br />For this moment, I feel the most sensitivity I have felt in over a month. I truly cherish being here this moment, and I truly cherish her, my precious flower of Estonia. Melancholy, sensitivity, and cherishing. Nothing in feeling has been lost, it is all here. It is true the fire of love can be re-ignited, with an open and sensitive heart, into her mystery....<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="360" height="240" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/huFzIW-3Q08" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Kylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196860709778858962noreply@blogger.com0