Musings. Ex Libris

After some punishing, barely-endurable hours of flights I'm finally arriving the destination. The outset of the journal should more typically start with something like, "When I landed in Auckland what greeted my view was..." just like getting a greedy whiff of the detergent straightly after buying it. Squandering the first serial to splutter about the discomfort of my plane journey should never come to the fore if the journey was guaranteed to be smooth and silky. Unfortunately, most of the auspicious trips I've taken were, by reflection, blighted by the insuppresible panic due to the horrid flight. Some measures have been taken over the years, since flying becomes the only priority to obtain my abroad education, I must think of something to alleviate my phobia. While taking off and landing prove to be the most hands-wringing moments, glossy magazines or any books with flatteringly colorful pictures are the most effective to distract attentions. En route of the journe

Some man died not out of accients, and interrogated God in apparent anxiety, "For why am I died a nobody?" God holds an admirable equanimity. Apparently those questions are hackneyed and are already registered in his Book. "Because you were born to be one." God's self-possession is unperturbed. "But I'd been trying all my might to become a not nobody." The man is readily demanding a satisfactory answer. "Oh, then maybe you didn't try that hard." God's prevarication is slightly frail, for in his Life he has never met someone who is that persistent. "But I did go the whole hog for everything that will make me become a somebody. I'd done numerous sacrifices just to achieve something I'd longed for." The man perseveres. "Then blame the Destiny, blame the Fate. It was their faults that you were ending up as a nobody." God is running out of his wits, and his good-humouredness crucially tested. "Perhaps y

The art of traveling, is to live your days at the most idealized stage; is to absolve your qualms of doing something which you normally do on the sly. For me it was to renounce my daily duties, mortal responsibilities. And my daily courses were almost the same: reading without worrying about the protraction of my writer's block; writing without fussing over the precision of words, the consistency of logics; dreaming without dreading its boundary. So time squandered away greedily. One day I went to an old traditional garden in a slightly unopportune time, for the supposedly wholesome atmosphere has retreated to dogged hibernation- desolation seeped in. Everything could be in a most unwelcoming dilapidation, but their enticement swept over you as if tickling by fuzz. For a second it even seemed favorable to be dead than alive. It all happened to me as a tourist, who exerted my liberty of being someone I illusioned. Wearing bluffing disguise in this guileless world, yet a masked-face