i want to fly, but i feel dizzy

Events have been jampacked back-to-back since last Friday, and it is only now, today, this thanksgiving moment, that I can sit with ease in front of the computer to jot all of those little thoughts down before they perish. “feeding on art” is what I have used to sum up the past two days. Indigestion? Not yet. txtrapolis(nafa), substation sept fest, sparks @esplanade(performance by effendi, andree, kai lam), da wu’s opening @ studio miu(takashimaya). I cannot fathom how I went through all of the above like a groupie. I did enjoy and learnt quite a bit from the talks, and the remaining bulk from my many conversations with people. (was with agnes and eliza at can café after txtrapolis, then tzay chuen they all with the Rumah Air Panas at Kopitiam...and the large gang headed to Holland village after da wu’s opening) Also met new people like sabrina koh from nafa( well, we should have met, but it is only now that we officially met), ting ting(my NJ peer, heard from chai that she is back, so finally met, adrian from nj as well), guo liang(from p10, and so he is him), and wani(julie’s childhood friend).i wonder how many calories or cholesterol I have burnt in the meeting of people.
There are many take-aways from being a groupie of two days, I reckon. And I am well aware that deep down inside, the direction for my future is sharpening every time, and that explains an unspeakable joy. Although there still lives an itch of wishing there is someone to share love of such, I think I rather remain in this erudition of being happy alone, kissing my matrix.
You are what you read, Goethe’s Faust made me learnt a tad that the more one expands the mind by reading, the greater the sensitivity, the more isolated he becomes to the outside world as he dwells on his inward triumphs, hence the more impoverished the relationships he has to life. Ultimately, in this world that is encrusted in facades of impasse, one eventually dies in his mind, the single-dimension prison he calls his own.
From can café: romantic cynic, poems, misfit, erasure, women, tunnel, 'unbearable lightness of being' by Milan kundera, 1984(I have to agree with kundera that books still contain the essence, and whenever, almost all the time, they are turned into movies, the essential is lost, remaining the accessory which will dismally be the intrigue.)
Terse as it may seem. For now, I have got to stop.