Oh so today’s one rare day where there’s no school! Sheesh, found out this morning that it did not actually made much of a difference, For instance, my brother’s still pretty much alive, I’m still as dead and time’s still running till there’s 318 more days. Chinese New Year? Uh, it rings a bell, it sure did. Oh well, not that it made much of a difference as I’ve said. So on this fateful day, I went to dig out my classics, yet again. This time, I found Anne Bronte, sister of Charlotte Bronte, the one with Jane Eyre. Well, the first and last time I read Jane Eyre was when I was that bright-eyed 11 year old. And obviously, from what pea-sized info I’ve gleaned from it is just that Jane Eyre was for some reason Jane Elliot at some point in time and she had an affair with Mr Rochester who was blind? Maybe one day/night there was this fire and something eerie happened to the parlourmaid or cook or whatsoever.

Oh well, but I liked Anne Bronte better, her sense of humour is terribly unique– Stood twisting his body and visage into the most grosteque and singular contortions– laughable, no doubt, to an unconcerned spectator but not to me–and uttering loud yells and doleful outcries, intended to represent weeping, but wholly without the accompaniment of tears. This was from ‘Agnes Grey’, a yet unexperienced governess in an unfortunate struggle unanimously won by the children. HAHAHA, this was the one time I laughed so hard while perusing a book. The only other time was when I read this book on ethics– Life is a terminal illness, sexually transmitted. Get it? Read and read again? Read and read again? Done?

Wonder what it means to speak Shakespearean english. Ms Wee’s take on this,” Speak like Shakespeare and you’ll have no friends!” Urh-hur, I’ll probably go–*I prithee thee listen! O, doth pain repeat o’er thy words. Fie, what complexion stem from ’tis!* And we’ll all die from this narcisstic outburst cos a) this probably isn’t grammar even in archaic, b) the incentive for assassination is enough for Armageddon to step into the hell gate!

Ah, the other thing I recovered from the dust was my past poem collections, those 3 or 4 years back ones. After that, I’ve decided that I’m really a psycopath with a sad life. Their either about the evil triumphing over my soul, or on my demise etcetera. This one’s written about 2 or 3 years back–

Through the looming veils it comes

The changling child, the death-wish dance

Ominous jinxes in a trance

The ones who shoot without a gun

The lips of an angel trembles the harp

The death hymn…

Eeee…shows that I was sad 2 or 3 years back and am still as sad right now. Mm, such a consolation. But somehow, this poem don’t ring much sense right now, pity. Guess its just on my part to make it rhyme. Then again, Freud might say–the frequent association of self with the traumatised shows inferiority and submission in reality and the mention of the supernatural suggests oppression on subject’s beliefs and values. Hurhur and indeed, some bastard must have killed me earlier on in life. A belated thanks, *genuflects*! I chanced another poem I liked recently:

When the golden day is done

Through the closing portal

Child and garden, flower and sun

Vanish all things mortal…

and so on, can’t remember the next stanza. I should think its Night and day by Thomas Acquisca and sorry if I mispelt. I like the last stanza, poignancy always wins.

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