A well frog

By fully agreeing with the privileges of being an ordinary one in terms of stratatized social, economic norms of now, not of the depth and soundness of one's person and dignity, I do also second the greatness of pluralism and the fillip of having international aspect to any forms of creativity. But the fact remains the same backstreets in any countries now, especially even in the West. That is about the myopia of acting like a well frog, in Tibetan ཁྲོམ་པའི་སྦལ་བ་. And as per an old Indian saying, even a cur, a loutish mongrel, can act like a lion along the strip of his run. :D 

A tonic amid the huge jumble of thoughts and constructs

Like scratching an old scab, I tend to go back unwilling to let myself live down thus... But, at the same time, like letting myself at least try to form a cicatrizing pale ring around the wound, I am in love with the reality of interconnected network of origination or dependency to its infinity, much beyond your mathematical calculation and academic grandiosity so simply futuristic and bombastic. I wonder can your putting step on every entity of the galaxy matter in transforming yourself into a stable one at least at last. 

So we are Tibetans

I wonder why international medias aren't interested at all about such selflessly sublime act of Tibetan monasteries and Tibetans in Tibet donating that much to coronavirus infected ordinary Chinese on the ground, in those hellish hospitals, not in those as CCTV and CGTN present to the world, not in such a grandiose, storied complex rigged up in a week. Whoop, even now the West is fool, like during the Cultural Revolution as presented to them and their being that gullible. Yes, maybe as of their being that curious about coming into contact with something extraordinary and that from the external world that they know the best. If you ask me individually, I do, frankly, hate Chinese.

I happened to eavesdrop on so

"Tu connais jacuzzi, j-a-c-u-z-z-i? ...quand tu es enervé....," a young black woman of seemingly lissome stature, so cute that her doing herself up right before on the station platform did matter now to me, her dreadlocks worn in a smart bun as a crown on the crest of her head, was in the middle of a voice call with someone, seemingly possessive or presenting as so, or hard up, on the other end. But for me, the loner aboard RER A to Paris from a faubourg, jacuzzi that she presented as something so heavenly, so coveted after like she could remain in a one for her life time, as from the coyness even here reflected in the twinkling of her big, bit protruded eyes, presented as a timely mnemonic that let me indulge myself in dissecting everything related with it, the set to the notion of enjoying in it to the real time activity to sensations or any, to see if she could really endure it thus...