phantasmagoria.

what a splendiferous word.

Phantasmagoria.
1. A shifting series or succession of things seen or imagined, as in a dream.
2. Any constantly changing scene.



ib, for one, feels a bit too surreal.

yeah i expected things to be different, just not to such an extent.
it's hard to explain, it's just the general feel and mood of it all.
there's a distance between you and everything else.

people drift in and out, new faces are seen in each class.
and then you go on to the next.
and the next.

you never eat with the same people during recess.
you all somehow apparently end school at different times.

you only see your form class for but a few periods (contact time, chinese, tok?)
then again not all of them.


it's almost like you get to know everyone,
yet no one, really.


at least for now.

i think a key reason is because of the huge shift from last year's culture.
which was all that i've listed up there's, presence of.
the class was with each other all the time,
each lesson
each recess,
each end of the day.
and our class chemistry was amazing, so it pretty much adds a punch of an effect to whatever's happening now.

i wonder if i'll ever find a class with better chemistry.
miss the days of 3.15-4.15



so, so, surreal indeed.

lo

i jumped- and grabbed the fabric of the sky.
i pull- clouds, heavens from all corners fly,
and lo, in great gusto
behold

the universe.

who's to say.

they can come at really random, out-of-place times.

like today, whilst i was reading the chinese passage on H1N1.
not even sure how it linked, i think H1N1 linked to hospital in my mind, and that linked to dad.

so yeah, strong emotional waves can hit at even the most out of place times like those.
and likewise, in the most 'relevant' times, like going to the columbarium, it is possible to not feel much.

i like this poem, i read on a friend's blog.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am in a thousand winds that blow,

I am the softly falling snow.

I am the gentle showers of rain,

I am the fields of ripening grain.

I am in the morning hush,

I am in the graceful rush

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,

I am the starshine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,

I am in a quiet room.

I am in the birds that sing,

I am in each lovely thing.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there. I do not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

beautiful.
i'm not belittling the idea of weeping at a grave.
however i cannot deny that i like the perspective Mary Elizabeth Frye presents.
i like it, i feel i can relate to it, in a way.
thanks, friend.





in a thousand winds that blow.