@Maj =) -|- تونسي

Reading ‘Catching Fire’

I love you Collins <3 

I’m creating a new blog, mainly about movies/books, in which I’d share good titles, reviews, ratings, links, reflections
who is with me ?

http://movieengine.tumblr.com/

Follow please =)

I’ve purchased a pair of Kalenji sneakers recently
When I was back home I noticed the presence of a wonderful catch-phrase on them. It said; find your rhythm, enjoy your run

You could think about it a little bit and realise this is not only about sneakers, it’s about nearly everything in life !!

=)

Only death could whisper in your ear the secret of life
Only after we lose, we get to see things clearly
it’s only after saying the eternal goodbye that you’ll see the truth without any lies
Only death could give you a reason to smile
Only death could push you to live your journey to the fulliest
Only death could remind you of the silliness of everything
Only death makes you open your eyes
That we’re nothing but organic matters, from dust to dust
Making a big story of ourselves, hating, being mad, achieving, succeding, planning a future, leading a life of damnation, scientific progress and prime psychological disorders
We forgot the essence of existence, we forgot the only truth; that there’s no real reason for us to be here
We built mansions in a day, all the way from where we came, and forgot that we have to return home
We forgot the prime material that is the heart of everything; love
We forgot love, and preached fear.
No wonder why nowadays we’re nothing more but slaves of fear
We forgot. Fortunately, there’s death to make us remember the hard way. The price may be hard for some of us; but it’s nothing but an illusion; it’s not about losing or winning. It’s about love, and true love does not care about wins or losses.
Only an awareness of death could tell you what life is about. It’s nothing but a journey. Live it! Make sure to live it by loving! You’re not here to win
Only death could tell you the truth
Death will come near you; don’t be afraid of that moment. Hear what she will whisper in your ear.
Death will give you life when she’ll come near you.
Only death could say it

I saw your picture, you were deeply beautiful, doomy, like a Draconian song! You were deep, like an ocean! I wanted to talk to you, I wanted you to listen to the song I was listening to, I wanted to embrace you, feel your heat, feel your hair on my skin, I wanted to touch your face, to talk to your eyes, to drown in their ocean! But I couldn’t, I was afraid, and unsecure, and unsure! The cold night made it worse, the cold weather, too!Even though I wanted to talk to you, this desire that has gone to the limit will stay unannounced, will be burried alive inside of me. You’ll never hear it expressing itself, you’ll never hear that I was thinking of you on a lonely night, thinking of drinking from your beauty, thinking of one embrace, one brief presence of yours. It will never come to you that I was thinking of you, and wishing I could talk to you, send you the song I was hearing. I could never find the courage to do it, since I’m not sure yet, I’m unsecure, I’m still waiting behind that line of fear, fear of getting attached to you, fear to take the risk to love you, and to go haunting in the woods with you, in an unexpected journey. You were deeply beautiful, like a doom metal song. And I love it
And than the lady says: ‘It’s the end for me and you”
Who knows,? Maybe the end is the most promising start, maybe the end is just the beginning, or maybe I’m being too optimistic ..

I won’t have any difficulty in getting boyfriends, I never did. I’ll make love with them in their houses, or in the woods, I’ll feel a certain degree of pleasure, but the moment I reach orgasm, the feeling of emptiness will return. We won’t have much to talk about, and both he and I will know it. The time will come to make our excuses—‘It’s late’, or ‘I have to get up early tomorrow’—and we’ll part as quickly as possible, avoiding looking each other in the eye.

I’ll go back to my rented room in the convent. I’ll try and read a book, turn on the TV to see the same old programs, set the alarm clock to wake up at exactly the same time I woke up the day before and mechanically repeat my tasks at the library. I’ll eat a sandwich in the park opposite the theatre, sitting on the same bench, along with other people who also choose the same benches on which to sit and have their lunch, people who all have the same vacant look, but pretend to be pondering extremely important matters. Then I’ll go back to work, I’ll listen to the gossip about who’s going out with whom, who’s suffering from what, how such and such a person was in tears about her husband, and I’ll be left with the feeling that I’m privileged: I’m pretty, I have a job, I can have any boyfriend I choose. So I’ll go back to the bars at the end of the day, and the whole thing will start again. My mother, who must be out of her mind with worry over my suicide attempt, will recover from the shock and will keep asking me what I’m going to do with my life, why I’m not the same as everyone else, things really aren’t as complicated as I think they are. ‘Look at me, for example, I’ve been married to your father for years, and I’ve tried to give you the best possible upbringing and set you the best possible example.’

One day, I’ll get tired of hearing her constantly repeating the same things, and to please her I’ll marry a man whom I oblige myself to love. He and I will end up finding a way of dreaming of a future together: a house in the country, children, our children’s future. We’ll make love often in the first year, less in the second, and after the third year, people perhaps think about sex only once a fortnight and transform that thought into action only once a month. Even worse, we’ll barely talk. I’ll force myself to accept the situation, and I’ll wonder what’s wrong with me, because he no longer takes any interest in me, ignores me, and does nothing but talk about his friends, as if they were his real world.

When the marriage is just about to fall apart, I’ll get pregnant. We’ll have a child, feel closer to each other for a while, and then the situation will go back to what it was before.  I’ll begin to put on weight like the aunt that nurse was talking about yesterday—or was it days ago, I don’t really know. And I’ll start to go on diets, systematically defeated each day, each week, by the weight that keeps creeping up regardless of the controls I put on it. At that point, I’ll take those magic pills that stop you feeling depressed, then I’ll have a few more children, conceived during nights of love that pass all too quickly. I’ll tell everyone that the children are my reason for living, when in reality my life is their reason for living.

People will always consider us a happy couple, and no one will know how much solitude, bitterness and resignation lies beneath the surface happiness. Until one day, when my husband takes a lover for the first time, and I will perhaps kick up a fuss like the nurse’s aunt, or think again of killing myself. By then, though, I’ll be too old and cowardly, with two or three children who need my help, and I’ll have to bring them up and help them find a place in the world before I can just abandon everything. I won’t commit suicide: I’ll make a scene, I’ll threaten to leave and take the children with me. Like all men, my husband will back down, he’ll tell me he loves me and that it won’t happen again. It won’t even occur to him that, if I really did decide to leave, my only option would be to go back to my parents’ house and stay there for the rest of my life, forced to listen to my mother going on and on all day about how I lost my one opportunity for being happy, that he was a wonderful husband despite his peccadillos, that my children will be traumatized by the separation.

Two or three years later, another woman will appear in his life. I’ll find out—because I saw them, or because someone told me—but this time I’ll pretend I don’t know. I used up all my energy fighting against that other lover, I’ve no energy left, it’s best to accept life as it really is, and not as I imagined it to be. My mother was right. He will continue being a considerate husband, I will continue working at the library, eating my sandwiches in the square opposite the theatre, reading books I never quite manage to finish, watching television programmes that are the same as they were ten, twenty, fifty years ago.

Except that I’ll eat my sandwiches with a sense of guilt, because I’m getting fatter; and I won’t go to bars anymore, because I have a husband expecting me to come home and look after the children. After that, it’s a matter of waiting for the children to grow up and of spending all day thinking about suicide, without the courage to do anything about it. One fine day, I’ll reach the conclusion that that’s what life is like, there’s no point worrying about it, nothing will change.

And I’ll accept it.“