The sun likes to rise and the moon likes to fall

The girl I use to be
Has a terrible case of mistaken identity
And yesterday's girl is not what you see
It's a terrible case of mistaken identity

Not Me, Not I

Conversation Among The Ruins

Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:

Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,

What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

- Sylvia Plath



I know it's Valentine's Day and the content of this entry is indelicately laced with ominous darkness. This isn't
reflective of my mood nor my intention to subdue Valentine's celebrations in all its heady and sublime glory. But my alter ego Sylvia Plath dominates my online persona, like an addiction strung out for black - resistance is futile

They say today is the most romantic day of the year, wise men say only fools rush in. Love is a shiny beacon -
beckoning, teasing the desires of our hearts and on Valentine's Day, women (and some men too) wait in eager 
anticipation for the manifestation of love. Because if love eludes even the most romantic day of the year, what
hope is there for the believers of the remaining cupid-less days?

I don't believe love is an elusive being, hibernating all year round for an annual grand reveal. Nor do I believe that
Valentine's Day is the most romantic day of the year - that's marketing puffery hung proudly in the hall of fame of commercialisation. In marketing, we create desire and we spoon feed you the solution.

Is it weak then, to desire explicit displays of love and affection on Valentine's Day? I think not - sometimes
there's no rhyme or reason for the way we feel and an army of logic cannot eliminate the restless strive to fulfil
the wishes of our Freudian super egos.

Happy Valentine's Day =)

The Analyst

"The Analyst"

Prepare yourself to meet a girl who can not sleep 
Dividing every question 'til the questions are complete 
Every twisted tongue she studies everyone 
She won't leave any stone unturned the night is oh so young 

Oh oh she's travelling back in time 
Questioning every line that someone said 
Oh oh she's trying to understand 

Free her mind she's always the analyst 
Silent space the culprit the catalyst 
Trying to make sense of her life 
Digging around in the dirt she's a slave to the work 
She's always the analyst 

Can you be sure we haven't met, see the eyes they don't forget 
They wander through the passage-ways that tease a restless mind 
Can't afford to slip, the picture's gotta fit 
Her world's a photograph that gets dissected bit by bit 

Oh oh she's travelling back in time 
Questioning every line that someone said 
Oh oh she's trying to understand 

Free her mind she's always the analyst 
Silent space the culprit the catalyst 
Trying to make sense of her life 
Digging around in the dirt she's a slave to the work 
She's always the analyst 

With the weight of the world, that I held deep inside

My Xanga Profile Pic in 2003

10 years ago I started blogging my inner ramblings in cyberspace using Xanga.
I signed into my Xanga account today with the intention of shutting it down and destroying all incriminating evidence of the self proclaimed expert in: Procrastination, Over-analyzing, Over-complicating - night owl/insomniac.  

Little has changed.

I am still the emo girl addicted to lyrical/poetic plagiarism, a wayward child with unbridled desires and the endless spurts of introspective wisdom weaved in between the tireless collection of digital photography abuse.

It's as if I've stumbled upon an old friend as I peruse with amusement at my Xanga entries, cringing at times and reminiscent at others as I set adrift on memory bliss (I use the word 'bliss' loosely).

I was about to shut it all down. Was it to bury old skeletons or to lay to rest the neurotic analyst? 

 It's a fact, once you get on board
Say good-bye cause you can't go back