I'm listening to Bach at the moment. Rostropovich does Celli Suite 1-6. Listening to bach has allowed me to enter into a window of thought about my ex. Antonia must be happy with her new partner. She probably will get married and have another kid. Maybe they'll live happily ever after.
I can't really be bitter about that. That's nothing about me, her happiness now has nothing to do with me and I should be glad for her if she is happy.
Bach's cello melodies are controlled and yet have a great sense of rubato about it. I keep the music on in my room all the time so that I can hide in the sonic world. I appear emotionally detached to some, but I let the feelings perculate in the music. Instead of the coffee cup of my emotions mulling and infecting every recess of my being at present, perhaps I can externalise the breadth of human emotion through sound. The cello enters reverie after reverie; pondering upon the human condition in its eternal beauty of depth and richness.
Today I ate I nice lovely roast dinner that my mum has made. Over the past few days I have been pondering upon the persons that I used to be in the past. They were all different men, and now I am in the position of self-determination; how do I make my mark on the pantheon of those past selves? Do I improve on my flaws, do I have a unique strength? Will my accolades and prospects and repetoire of talents be the envy of future or past selves? I'm not sure.
Today I shall listen to my Bach, drink warm water after my tummy is full from supper and begin my book reading (for the book review). i am trying detachment to remember the ideals that I used to live up to. I practiced a bit of Rachmaninov and the bloody hard fingerings. Perhaps I can cultivate a new sense of self. Perhaps I can get out of this rut.
I sent off an application today for a research assistant job with a psychiatrist project. I hope it will go well. It pays decently and it's three years. Oh golly that's a pretty good plan B!
I can't really be bitter about that. That's nothing about me, her happiness now has nothing to do with me and I should be glad for her if she is happy.
Bach's cello melodies are controlled and yet have a great sense of rubato about it. I keep the music on in my room all the time so that I can hide in the sonic world. I appear emotionally detached to some, but I let the feelings perculate in the music. Instead of the coffee cup of my emotions mulling and infecting every recess of my being at present, perhaps I can externalise the breadth of human emotion through sound. The cello enters reverie after reverie; pondering upon the human condition in its eternal beauty of depth and richness.
Today I ate I nice lovely roast dinner that my mum has made. Over the past few days I have been pondering upon the persons that I used to be in the past. They were all different men, and now I am in the position of self-determination; how do I make my mark on the pantheon of those past selves? Do I improve on my flaws, do I have a unique strength? Will my accolades and prospects and repetoire of talents be the envy of future or past selves? I'm not sure.
Today I shall listen to my Bach, drink warm water after my tummy is full from supper and begin my book reading (for the book review). i am trying detachment to remember the ideals that I used to live up to. I practiced a bit of Rachmaninov and the bloody hard fingerings. Perhaps I can cultivate a new sense of self. Perhaps I can get out of this rut.
I sent off an application today for a research assistant job with a psychiatrist project. I hope it will go well. It pays decently and it's three years. Oh golly that's a pretty good plan B!
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