Before you go further, I’d like to thank all those people who recently followed me. I mean, why? I’ve been active as a sloth in the summer (not sure how accurate that is, I know they are creepy looking and slow beyond comprehension). What I am try to say is this: thank you so much!
It’s not easy to communicate the way we feel especially to a person we trust. We worry about their opinion about us, because let’s face it it’s easy to say that ‘it doesn’t matter what people say’. I treat it as a blanket phrase. It matters when it’s someone we value, because they matter. I don’t know why I ever thought that writing about my problems should be any easier. I’ve started countless times only to scrap an entire post because I feel ridiculous and I realize just how much of a private person I am. I have read blogs where writers bare a good portion of their souls to perfect strangers and I think it’s both stupid and brave.
These days I’m hounding the scent of inspiration. It is what drives us, not only a good cause will be enough to stick to a goal; be it studying, to put in volunteer work, to work two jobs even if you don’t have to but because you think it will prove beneficial in the long run; to make your parents proud; to prove a point. We need the motivation, some of us need it as incentive to live another day, to not give up on ourselves. Let me share this quote I found:
People often say that motivation doesn’t last well. Well, neither does bathing. That’s why we recommend it daily” – Anon
I don’t admire the girl I was for the past five or six years ago, if I could I would slap her silly and tell her to grow up fast. The quicker she learned that time is running out, how very far she’s yet to go, how much she’ll suffer in her own hands; I wish I was more aware of my mortality and (ironically?) my own indifference or obliviousness, or both if it’s not already the same thing. I’m thankful that I did, at any rate. At the same time I heeded the timeless advice of learning from my mistakes, most of the time anyway. That’s progress. Read More »
This isn’t right, he thought for the hundredth time. Mathew stood well within the reach of the shadows in the corner of the room. The old women, oh these women, their wills were thousandfold the force of their heavy wrinkled and gnarled hands. They had gotten it in their heads that Petr must live. Why, he’s far too young for this fate.
Fools. Who are they to decide against nature? Petr, the rambunctious lad he loved and knew, the boy who wanted to fly. Pretended to do so as he ran down the hills at breakneck speed just to feel the wind. If he’d been allowed to die in proper peace would have turned in his grave at the very though of such imposed suffering his soul must endure. It pained Mathew to see his friend binded to this lingering existence.
The soft light of dawn stroked Petr’s pale immobile face, a picture of perfect, undisturbed rest. Read More »
Hi everyone, I’m terribly sorry for not visiting in such a long time, sadly enough posting these days end up just being an afterthought. Today is Phagwah, the festival many of us Hindus celebrate to mark the beginning of spring. Today we throw coloured powder and water on friends, family and agreeable strangers (who can be of different religion and race) not only for the new season but also to commemorate Krishna’s fondness of pranks. This week’s Ermilia’s Picture It and Write! reminds me of the holiday, particularly the clouds. So here’s my bit. It’s been a while.
The pain at my temples throbbed like the beats in a Hall and Oats song. I stayed home today, and work was out of question with all of the indecision and confusion and plain all out frustration that had condensed into a dripping orb in my chest. I take a sip of the stuff of the bottom of my mug and nearly wretched. A day and a half old black coffee can do that to a body, served me right I supposed, I hadn’t gotten around to change the grounds. Nevertheless, picking it up made me feel a whole lot better for it revealed a recent postcard from some picturesque lake in Scotland from my best friend Riley.
It wasn’t very hard to believe such serene beauty was real, I grew up to long stretches of road with views of sun-lit cane fields on one side and rice on the other, took shade under coconut trees and shared that ever sentimental sky. Instead of feeling homesick, I wanted to pick up and drive off to where the sky met the ground in the far flung horizon.
The likes of lochs and miles of impossibly high mountains were utterly magnificent to my eyes that never beheld them. Read More »
This is my bit for last week Picture It and Write! photo prompts. This is a lengthy one but I’ll promise you that you most likely like it, I know it’s turned out to be one of my favourites. Cheers!
It’s my day off and I’ve been staring at the pastel blue of the sky unblinkingly for long moments at a time. My eyes overflow at the effort and no doubt it would have hurt if the sun was between the delicate looking clouds. As it happened this sky wasn’t authentic but an armature attempt at fresco, Tia’s pride. A decent imitation though I was no expert to really say but an imitation nonetheless; a much better fallacy than the timeline of my life so far. I have to quit thinking about all of that. I’ve put it behind me, or I tried to but it’s so hard to do that when the past is what put me here in the first place.
But it’s not entirely a bad state, to be honest. I grabbed at the chance to cohabitate, it was good rent and surprisingly good company. Tia was the resident artist, wielding paint brushes and words both, but keeps a day job as a florist five minutes away. Kirsty was a chef at a ritzy restaurant in the Bronx, who could probably afford a whole flat but for reasons unknown to me she’d rather share one. I should talk more like I used to, you get answers that way. I … well, I wait tables at Clayton’s mostly the nightshifts; nothing artistic about that if you don’t count the random bad poetry I scrawl on paper napkins leaving them lying on the tables.
I nearly tumbled off of the couch. Tia was at the other end of the living room sitting at the desk, fuming at her laptop. She swiveled around to stare incredulously at me.
“Kyrie, can you believe what that fecker, Tony, told Becky?” she said ‘Becky’ like it was the pigeon crap she was compelled to scrape off the deck.
I tilted my head to the side in silent inquiry.
“He spilled on my next installment of Ricard Octopus. This is a crucial one and I am beyond pissed,” she fumed, pulling at her dark brown hair in utter frustration. Then a maniacal light came into her eyes.
“I know what I’ll do. I’ll name a character after him then they’ll get really attached and then … I’ll go Steven Moffatt all over ’em!” Tia erupted into a cackle the wicked witch would approve of, rubbed her palms together, sent me an conspiring evil grin and swung around to pound furiously at the keyboard.