Strong winds ripple water; Forest trees are laid low... A bitter urge to die -- One can't come; one can't go. Ten decades flow, stream-like; Riches are cold, gray ash. Life 's a death procession -- Unless you're adept and brash, And can take up the sword To hasten the anguish... No rustling dry leaves, or Leaky roof as you languish.
NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a crude translation of the nineteenth of the twenty-four poems. This poem’s Chinese title is 悲慨, and it has been translated as: “Despondent,” and “Sorrowful.”
No. It’s not that I’m insufficiently petty, but rather that I lack the requisite memory and passion for such things.
I once read about a psychopath who claimed that when he was wronged, he would hold onto it, bide his time, and get his nemesis with a commensurate reply at a later date — often years later when other person had completely forgotten about the matter. Quite frankly, I don’t know how he had the mental energy.
For example: being punched in the face and swimming in open waters.
As for how, to my knowledge there’s only one way to overcome any fear and that’s exposure to the fearful stimulus. e.g. One loses (at least greatly reduces) fear of being hit by sparring.
The maples have grown old; Orchards have begun to wither. The reds and greens have faded. Climbing the heights, I Feel the chill of late Autumn. A ceaseless pounding sound Drowns out the setting sun. Remembered sorrows flock To mind, making new sorrows. We are separated By a thousand miles; From our two distant places We can't even meet in dreams. The rain stops, and the sky clears; One can see the twelve green peaks. Speechless, who could understand My angst, as I stand cliffside. I can write of my grief, but Will the clouds bring a reply?
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
A loose shard of thought Flips and twists about in My brain, Poking sensitive tissue, And sending firestorms Riffling through my circuitry. I can't really say I feel each Prickle or pierce, but they Do make me wince, sometimes.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 