So I've jumped from Friendster to My Space which I'm glad I did, you can find me on either as imortalrooster@collegeclub.com

My space has more features and it just plain works, whereas Friendster is slow and featureless.

What's been going on in my life you ask? well simple enough really. Daily I wake up and I'm already at work, then I might study a bit. Go to classes at night while planning for the next semester, in the afternoons I hang with friends, weekends are usually involving some type of outdoor activity or a show. I was scheduled to participate in a tournament this weekend, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to do so with my hand the way it is.

My hand is an inconvenience, but I'm dealing with it, I'll take the stitches out myself in a few days. There's no sense in spending a ton more money on a hospital visit for something I can do myself.

This life is too fast

Here is a quote below from my current stage of re-reading Proust. Seems to sum up a lot about reading literature and the art of fiction. Also the internet, sadly, has speeded everything up. We need to slow everything down again. Or does it mean the opposite? Im not sure. Whatever the case, it means something we should spend time in pondering.

Next to this central belief which, while I was reading, would be constantly reaching out from my inner self to the outer world, towards the discovery of truth, came the emotions aroused in me by the action in which I was taking part, for these afternoons were crammed with more dramatic events than occur, often, in a whole lifetime. These were the events taking place in the book I was reading. It is true that the people concerned in them were not what Francoise would have called real people. But none of the feelings which the joys or misfortunes of a real person arouse in us can be awakened except through a mental picture of those joys or misfortunes; and the ingenuity of the first novelist lay in the understanding that, as the image was the one essential element in the complicated structure of our emotions, so that simplification of it which consisted in the suppression, pure and simple, of real people would be decided an improvement. A real person, profoundly as we may sympathize with him, is in a great measure perceptible only through our senses, that is to say, remains opaque, presents a dead weight which our sensibilities have not the strength the lift. If some misfortune comes to him, it is only in one small section of the complete idea we have of him that we are capable of feeling any emotion; indeed it is only in one small section of the complete idea he has of himself that he is capable of feeling any emotion either. The novelists happy discovery was to think of substituting for those opaque sections, impenetrable to the human soul, their equivalent in immaterial sections, things, that is, which ones soul can assimilate. After which it matters not that the actions, the feelings of this new order of creatures appear to us in the guise of truth, since we have made them our own, since it is in ourselves that they are happening, that they are holding their thrall, as we feverishly turn over the pages of the book, our quickened breath and staring eyes. And once the novelist has brought us to this state, in which, as in all purely mental states, every emotion is multiplied ten-fold, into which his book comes to disturb us as might a dream, but a dream more lucid and more abiding than those which come to us in sleep, why then, for the space of an hour he sets free within us all the joys and sorrows in the world, a few of which only we should have to spend years of our actual life in getting to know, and the most intense of which would never be revealed to us because the slow course of their development prevents us from perceiving them. It is the same in life, the heart changes, and it is our worst sorrow; but we know it only through reading, through our imagination: in reality its alteration, like that of certain natural phenomena, is so gradual that, even if we are able to distinguish, successively, each of its different states, we are still spared the actual sensation of change.