Wednesday, July 30, 2008

What is Happiness?

Happiness is...

A warm caress

and a cold yummy treat!

Ohh, I just love it!

Tuesday, July 15, 2008


A storm named Helen.

The rain is at it again. For three straight days in a row, it has been raining steadily in the metropolis. The gloomy weather is exacerbating my equally gloomy, if not gloomier, disposition. The clear evidence of which is that, I have stopped reading books for almost a month now. The books are piling up, but I seem to have lost the passion to pick them up. I would normally read two books at at a time, but for the longest time now, I don't have the energy to read. Something is amiss.

I hope the sun comes back this week. I need that 'sun-shiny' feeling again.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Proud Mom

JK's sweetest smile.

My pride and joy will soon turn three. My once sweet cherub is now a fast-talking, argumentative, but thoughtful pre-schooler. All of her babyness is now gone. My only consolation is that her smile is still the same. She still has the same angelic smile, a smile that radiates an unblemished happiness from within, a smile that comes from the depths of her being. I hope she doesn't lose this ever.

Friday, July 11, 2008

So Funny

Jim Carrey and girlfriend Jenny McCarthy

Jim Carrey is so funny. He shows his toned bod by wearing his girlfriend's swimsuit. Who says guys should wear the pants all of time? Why choose the pants when you can wear one of these?


Thursday, July 3, 2008

A Love Poem by Neruda

Stan Rice's Red Tulip

The highest form of literature is poetry. Poetry's language is exact, precise, lyrical, and never superfluous. Though I couldn't really write a poem, and have never really tried doing one to be honest, I do know how to appreciate a great poem when I see one.

Just saw this Neruda poem this afternoon, and couldn't help reciting it.

I just love it.

Sonnet XVII

by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.