Free

The sky holds my inspiration. When there is blue, ideas flow and everything dries up in the gray. My writing is quite often about the sky. They are repetitive lines that describe what I see and they usually are about the fact that I can see. As a child the night sky fascinated me and made me dream big. Later in life, I remember naming shapes in white clouds and thought of who put them there. More recently, colours of the sky throughout the day fascinate and make me feel the need to write.

Changing rooms

I decided to make it to the stores. I had to buy a sweater and there was just no way out of it. The store I entered stretched out in front of me and the impact of the task ahead hit me in full force. I could already feel myself giving up slowly. Sweater I thought. Wool. Let's find wool. I wished the store would just make things simple for me and put all the wool in one single corner and let me just dive in for a moderately non-flashy weave of something that would last at least that winter. Of course, it is a private brand of hell where I find myself and there are sweaters classified by some mysterious formula, that suits most of the other shoppers around me of which I can make no sense. I find something that looks decent and is not priced the moon and a few stars.

I head to the changing rooms that makes the store look like a playground for kids.

Colours

A streak of orange and purple stretched across the portion of the sky that I could see from beside the massive ugly building in front of my window. The fact that I woke up early enough to see it, was as good as the vision before me. A squeal of delight and silent thanks to ice and dust high up in the air that spread the sunlight out. As the day went on, the orange and purple gave way to pink and light blue - gently fading into each other while remaining distinct.

Failing projects

Like so many before
You have failed this one too
It wasn't as though,
It was too tough to do
At first you were riding the wave
And then trying to get thru'
But in the end, on the way
Life took over you

Recipe for hot drink

Crush a little ginger
(It is a spice, if you didn't know)
(It is also a root)
(Wikipedia says so)
And gently drop it in a cup
Boil water, make it piping hot
And dribble some honey
Right into the water pot
Drink it, take a big swig
Take deep breaths
Look out the window
Let your face portray depth

Pictures of her

And with that, the ties that bound her to being a picture of what the world wanted her to be were gone. She turned around and faced the rest of the crowd with her real face, her game face, the one that said that she owned everything that was in her mind, even the silly thoughts, even the ones that were ill formed, the ones that were not formed, the ones that she was ashamed of. They were hers. And she would stand up for them, because they were hers.

Not a question about my blog though

If in some dark corners of the internet, there is a blog that screams at the TOP OF ITS VOICE and no one hears it, is it still filled with witty, funny, happy, silly expressions of the person who writes it?

Dialogues

She: (cracks knuckles, rubs palms together) Lets get this done today.

The world, the universe, everyone every where: Hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha hahaha

Award acceptance speeches

"Who could have predicted that the silly album that I put together with my friend in my garage, with nothing but a cheap recording device and camera, would become the world's greatest hit ever? I am glad I actually used my time to do something productive. I will remember this and remain humble and hardworking all my life."

And that's  how she spent her morning. She put off working on her silly album with her friend, planning her award acceptance speeches that she would receive for it.

Definitions 2

Procrastination: The job description of that part of  your brain that will find everything on the internet extremely interesting at all times, except when you have no important work to do.

Definitions

Laziness : An immediate payoff with immense negative consequences in the future. But to hell with it, tomorrow is far away still.

Foretell

Must be honest here
I am writing with hindsight
I know what has already happened
It is not a happy time ahead
This needs barely a thought to tell you

Me

I am no mystery. I am just consumed with myself. This blog is an exercise in ego-feeding. Everything I write is about me and my point of view. The way I view the world around me, the things I see, the things that interest me, that trouble me, that annoy me. There is just one thing that it conveys. If you just squint a little, you can see. Every word on this page and every other is just : "me".

At the hairdresser's

It is almost hypnotic as I sit and watch the scissors moving swiftly in and out of thick, dark hair. It falls all around the chair and she stops often to sweep all those thick locks on the floor. I glance at her and see that she is consumed in her task. She stops to measure. She stops to find what must be chopped next. An act that she could do with her mind in some other world. I look again at her and I know that it is. And slowly my mind drifts too. As I am sure is the person on the chair.

We meet

The thought forms in my head
Like a small white cloud
Puffing up in a dark sky
And it is magic
Because that idea reaches a form
In your mind, separate from mine
Far away , and maybe
I have never laid eyes on you
Nor you on me
And yet in this cloud
We meet

Fireworks show

As the music lifts me up to a high and all I want to do is to be one with the world and dance. The words were written for this music like a match made in heaven. And then I saw the fireworks, magical at the other end of the vast expanse. Was this my imagination, could music even that divine cause explosions of light and colour in the dark sky?

Picture from outer space

A view from up above
A darkness forms the base
And bright spots light up
Where marks have been made
By the human race
The man who takes the image
The image is entirely his
But he leaves no trace
of taking this click

Painful pasts

A day to forget for ever
Or one to remember
For the million lives
That were taken
For mere fanciful ghosts
In the minds of men dead inside

The reason art is and touches

Art touches the observer most when there was deep sadness or immense joy in the process by which or due to which it was made. This type of art comes from a place inside the artist where he feels something beyond words or means of straightforward communication. This kind of art is rarely inspired. The artist has usually experienced a feeling or an event that has pushed him over the edge, burned inside him to be expressed out to the world, possessed him so that his life exists for the reason that he must say what needs to be said. And it is this art that you and I view or listen to or read. Barely acknowledging the suffering that the artist went through in order to express it. Rarely understanding the emotions that drove him to create it.

Confessions

I am an impostor
I am barely there
I am not all that I say I am
I am not what you think I am

Moderation

My attention seems to stretch and stray towards these polar opposites. I read articles online about daily happenings and news that are scholarly and almost snobbish. On the other hand I view pages and pages of gif-based 'memes' (I hate that I put those quote marks there but I can't help it),  pictures with punch lines in bold Impact font and the infamous cheezburger pictures. I am afraid that my brain will split in two pieces: each of them will mock each other with contrasting language styles: long, pedantic snobbery versus misspelled punch lines. The battle that will rage on between these warring parties will blow everything around it up and then from the ashes will rise the mediocre writing that I myself will create. I can haz sum hurrays pleez?

List

Things that I have learnt

1. I was a better thinker when I was young
2. The world cannot be changed for the better
3. People lie horribly, but it really is for good
4. Don't eat junk food all the time
5. Stupidity has no bounds - especially mine
6. Life is worth living no matter how much it stinks
7. Sisters with chubby cheeks are crucial

Poem

Powdery blue skies
Puffs of clouds delight
I just can't go on
I am bored out of my mind

Don't

Wise men have said before
Everything that I have to say
And  yet I will continue to gab
Until I come to the question,
That I told you not to ask yesterday
Just don't.

Never ask this one thing

Question everything
Ask till they hate you for asking
What, why, where how and when
But never ask yourself or anyone else
What does it all mean?

Pearl of Wisdom #398

If you have a problem with everyone and everything that is around you

It is you

Little by little

My memory is fading away
Little by little a chunk breaks off
And falls into that hole
Where memories go to be lost
And never be recovered again

It is your perspective

That which is perfect
Appears to you
As that which needs to be bettered
Just change the way you look at it
It is perfect, your vision is not

Either or

If I must work hard
To capture the bright side of life
Does that make me a positive person
Or just a control freak

With you

I wish I was there with you
As you play your little games
As you climb higher and swoop down
As you playfully plunge a little
And then chase each other around
I wish I was there with you
My lack of wings holds me down

The bus and the flyover

A single push of my leg
And the bike cruised forward
As I sat one with my vehicle
The breeze lifted my mood
And I sang with the wind
As I climbed up the flyover
And at the same pace at which I moved
This giant bus moved under me
A little bit of poetry in motion
Is it weird that I want to blog about this?