tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68152304816192139672024-02-19T02:23:45.431-08:00From the top of my headAnahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-17924771137088350392017-02-16T04:24:00.001-08:002017-02-16T05:25:25.288-08:00Prologue.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"I was punched breathless with the strongest emotions I Have ever felt and they are now stored in my intuition as a writer."<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">- Amy Tan.</span></div>
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Chapter 1. The two peas in a pod.</div>
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Day *infinite*</div>
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This wasn't the plan. I arrived on the island a while back. Almost a year. Whirlpool of a year, I must take note to mention. That's besides the downpour that greeted the city alongside, apace with the close ones. It was beautiful in the eyes of the beholder. </div>
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Something got lost immediately after. Time stopped and moved fast at the same time. Such loss, is long overdue. Not something to account for, but everything to shed a tear or two for. Heartbreaks- in place.</div>
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The guiding light, the north star- dimmed. Everything changed. Nothing was ever to be the same. </div>
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Letting go of the pain is the right thing to do. Finders keepers. Lessons teach us to look forward, to let go and yet never give up. To put our hearts out there, to give it your all (DIVE IN)... to not live amongst shadows. </div>
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"Sometimes... words go deep enough, to make you want to bleed; it's time (you know?) to let go; no matter how near or dear it is," she would teach me. For 9 years. All of childhood too.</div>
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~I walk with the candle burning still.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTrGtP0WaxpFdpSWnMhDay9d0ax0-rU8DbSX_0o3-Fgtpn_lKOGGrj0O1ZhmeL96YnTf6FccsVHuc1020ADmTp1kPUW43E3U7PCI9C6ruRBTl4EKGPil1-1cOPcuwZFkPzjhcgdkjzF0/s1600/coffeee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTrGtP0WaxpFdpSWnMhDay9d0ax0-rU8DbSX_0o3-Fgtpn_lKOGGrj0O1ZhmeL96YnTf6FccsVHuc1020ADmTp1kPUW43E3U7PCI9C6ruRBTl4EKGPil1-1cOPcuwZFkPzjhcgdkjzF0/s640/coffeee.jpg" title="" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tombstones.<br />
"When words go deep enough,<br />
to make you want to cry;<br />
When knives go deep enough,<br />
to make you want to die;<br />
It's time (you know?),<br />
to move on;<br />
No matter how near or dear it is."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Chapter 2. The Student.</div>
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It's a rigorous regime. Remember the first day of school? I have a picture. Two pigtails, a blue and white pin stripped dress, with such an excited happy expression. Recall being so scared secretly, not knowing anyone in the new place, being the stranger.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhGURtAtBa4TUTGpcEGHuzdincXO-H5l7csU50ia8p6Au7hyphenhyphenzAwOTR-Wj855_kjcMyfN_xxvHJnHtJyQHKmy2F7LwfSCdU1Pd8HX5qHgLP25CHENntO6CLdlIHmoGtNxUKYFoz0AK4hU/s1600/coffee+story.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhGURtAtBa4TUTGpcEGHuzdincXO-H5l7csU50ia8p6Au7hyphenhyphenzAwOTR-Wj855_kjcMyfN_xxvHJnHtJyQHKmy2F7LwfSCdU1Pd8HX5qHgLP25CHENntO6CLdlIHmoGtNxUKYFoz0AK4hU/s320/coffee+story.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PC: BoredPanda.</td></tr>
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~Two decades is a long time ago. School changed around 5 times after. Adaptation was a part of the package. Excitement perpetually replaced fear and anxiety. The whole new town experience was too good to let anything get in the way. </div>
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(Shh, there'll always come along a hand on your shoulder, a warm smile, an awkward joke, and soon enough, you'd be laughing. It's the thing about newness.)</div>
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48 cities, 25 years and counting. Ha. Personal record, I'm just starting.</div>
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The over-exceeding demand of the never-ending submissions in the ultra-cramped timeline is the headlines of the hour. You're either in the thick of it, or a little past it, recalling the times. Either ways, no way can you tell me it was not the best stage to be in. A reason or two will keep you going. The extra-curricular; the soccer tournaments, or was it cricket, or basketball; the madness of the sports day; the chaos of the annual functions; the warmth of the Christmas celebrations; the excitement about that School outing; don't forget the classified bunking, or the brigade of friends; we could go on. </div>
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Isn't it, the reason for the flickering smile in the nostalgia?</div>
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That early morning of life- the sun just coming up, the dreams just beginning to peep into the horizon.</div>
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"Us giants are making <i>whizzpoppers </i>all the time! </div>
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<i>WHIZZPOPPING </i>is a sign of happiness. It is music to our ears!</div>
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You surely is not telling me that a little</div>
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<i>WhIzzPOppINg </i>is forbidden among human bears?"</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">-Roald Dahl.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nt3purmfUC7mIfFAMHmqGOQEooBRAzFi7zZlqlplHiAJYPEOe5LKy7-57-Pos_KJjM_ab_DGZy9gBmm25diYT9K_9EGnKqmpurv40QPhIVP6SqDA6FdePTGudmouUk7j4Dqg_qsepT4/s1600/hideaway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nt3purmfUC7mIfFAMHmqGOQEooBRAzFi7zZlqlplHiAJYPEOe5LKy7-57-Pos_KJjM_ab_DGZy9gBmm25diYT9K_9EGnKqmpurv40QPhIVP6SqDA6FdePTGudmouUk7j4Dqg_qsepT4/s1600/hideaway.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A life is made up of a GREAT number of SMALL incidents, and a SMALL number of GREAT ones."</td></tr>
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Chapter 3. The Monochrome Sparkle.</div>
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A little snigger crosses the mind, and it makes the slight tilt of lips into a smile. We don't pertain to settling down. We don't want nothing less than <i>magic</i>. It should fit, like how fingers get laced together within the gaps between each other. The subtle undertones of current, the skipped heartbeats, the stolen smiles, are too overwhelming to contain. Incredulous!</div>
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It's about knowing, and yet remaining unknown. It is the uncompromised deal of hands. The unmasked knowledge of standing along to see, to touch, to feel- the talking, the laughter, when he pulls you in to let you lean on his shoulder to sleep, how she lends an ear and cares, or just how she will kick off her shoes and dance on the tables; is the reverie we're living for, the one we're living in. </div>
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Don't have frivolous expectations from romance. Believe in the BIG LOVE. The all consuming kind of love, the kind you can't believe exists in this physical realm of the planet. </div>
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The one that is yours.</div>
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It feels like an uncontrollable blaze. The ones you'll ever read about, maybe sing to, or even at times hear about. </div>
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It is- the once in a lifetime fairytale. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDdtC32_gW8e1sImPnU8jNw0NIkdLS3aZHaeufsRV4CyaL357JH0srnFYm0aWIXPHEqr7FiCInpzzlYOJjK01qV93OeqEdRhIDW5oLiSYvDdDrvNYL8uyyzotmAvsLirV1TfugqkvGgs/s1600/12063851_469990149829013_5699914804953386762_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDdtC32_gW8e1sImPnU8jNw0NIkdLS3aZHaeufsRV4CyaL357JH0srnFYm0aWIXPHEqr7FiCInpzzlYOJjK01qV93OeqEdRhIDW5oLiSYvDdDrvNYL8uyyzotmAvsLirV1TfugqkvGgs/s1600/12063851_469990149829013_5699914804953386762_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
The starry wake.</td></tr>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-64034600746635317542016-11-17T15:23:00.000-08:002016-11-17T15:23:33.341-08:00We haven't met yet.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The young night, dressed on with pale moonlight,<br />
And the music is fine,<br />
like the bubbling sparkling wine.<br />
The evening's starry breathtaking gown,<br />
holding hands in the towne.<br />
<br />
~We danced through the night,<br />
Darling, we lit up like starlight.<br />
I heard you smile over my shoulder,<br />
The shiver sparked a snow-white stone colder.<br />
And in the moment, I forget you're older.<br />
<br />
Walking home, evening shine.<br />
Nervous touch,<br />
Staying up, and waking up- hand in hand.<br />
Summer breeze across the floor.<br />
Candle reflections in the door.<br />
<br />
~I knew I'm so in love with you<br />
I want to stay with you,<br />
Until we're grey and old.<br />
I hope you know.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXQxTtqhTpDGIX6gY5MH1x4f6Re_mX1GX8tm1knoRhX5_fTXY_RYdykxfHlG2xM844DI_yV-JcjYdmuuxfLiQ5-1jSmArHCLgBlhgA1Jc02ZXp5adnN3_PrlRAJSdPCBBoGeOShyphenhyphenZRJc/s1600/IMG_20160326_111213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXQxTtqhTpDGIX6gY5MH1x4f6Re_mX1GX8tm1knoRhX5_fTXY_RYdykxfHlG2xM844DI_yV-JcjYdmuuxfLiQ5-1jSmArHCLgBlhgA1Jc02ZXp5adnN3_PrlRAJSdPCBBoGeOShyphenhyphenZRJc/s1600/IMG_20160326_111213.jpg" /></a></div>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-33276385445023846232016-09-23T00:55:00.001-07:002016-09-23T01:03:56.808-07:00Knots.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"In writing, habit seems to be a much stronger force than either willpower or inspiration."<br />
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">.John Steinbeck-</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Basking in the cold of the winter, sweetened by the warmth of morning sun- home is too far. There is an unattended pile of things to do; books to read, groceries to be bought, classes to be joined, places to be seen, friends to be called, family to be seen. Home is too far. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Reminiscence is a part of the day to day chores. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The smell of the roasting masalas. The pug marks on the edge of the bed. The little munchkin's chatter. Dad's bed-time tucks, just, making sure everyone got in okay. Mom's stories. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Mindfulness, absentmindedly, clinging onto home. But home is too far.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiht4_cozra-FaDWA64LuNMNDEk4w_ekI05FGcOUji8rX_4_HeNDsP0jwMXSSpOiN5miQd0u1gaNl96cr-963pZkRn3v8WmfSRCUFqN7_4gG26wAH1mU3LSGeJY6W4WuMy8iSB6PAu9kOw/s1600/time_lapse+sydney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiht4_cozra-FaDWA64LuNMNDEk4w_ekI05FGcOUji8rX_4_HeNDsP0jwMXSSpOiN5miQd0u1gaNl96cr-963pZkRn3v8WmfSRCUFqN7_4gG26wAH1mU3LSGeJY6W4WuMy8iSB6PAu9kOw/s640/time_lapse+sydney.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life in letters.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Change happens in little sniffles through the curtain of dawn. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm abandoning and losing the idea of writing the 500 pages. Trying for that one page each day. At the finish of it, in the end, it's always a surprise. </div>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-31869191212794915192016-06-20T08:01:00.000-07:002016-06-20T08:01:33.632-07:00Distractions. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Until science can explain</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How this world began,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You, me and everything else</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will be magic.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“How are you?” I enact to myself in front of the bathroom mirror trying to mimic a real-time conversation. As I flip through the daily ‘to do’s of my diary, I realize how soon time passed by. All of past 6 months, could they have gone by, so soon. Maybe in the rush of familiar routine, everyday regime- of waking up, getting to work, working the chaotic undertones of work and friendships, filling in the loose gaps with recreations.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Earlier this week, when I actually started writing this article, it talked a lot about liqueurs and placid music tones. About beautiful blue bays, sunny soccer fields, picnic tables, and rainy runaways. The magnetism and fascination catches on. I got distracted. </span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-ef5dd61a-6e49-6922-647e-7623c1c24810"><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few days have passed since; the irenic collective playing still has me preoccupied. </span></span><br />
<span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0EgKeTfFwYDGbmzl4yRcTJatwajbbX5MgxyjCNWMM6dqusBewl9p5_59MoFSb6XFTs9SCYuhiv_sSapcVXWPhj92BTM7oCz_ynFG5PrB96dezDVJxvEVd1H87fIeLzpFPT4iSSpMGVcY/s1600/Distratcions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0EgKeTfFwYDGbmzl4yRcTJatwajbbX5MgxyjCNWMM6dqusBewl9p5_59MoFSb6XFTs9SCYuhiv_sSapcVXWPhj92BTM7oCz_ynFG5PrB96dezDVJxvEVd1H87fIeLzpFPT4iSSpMGVcY/s640/Distratcions.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glittering quicksilver.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-63655338816917644422016-06-08T05:45:00.001-07:002016-06-08T05:49:33.429-07:00Suitcases.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"My dance is neither a philosophy nor a job; it is the way I am feeling emotionally. This is why I move."<br />
- Olga Kuraeva.<br />
<br />
It's awfully quiet nowadays. It gets dark sooner than usual. When the sunshine breaks through the curtains, I'm still tired from the sleeplessness.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The flickering lights look beautiful at night from up so high. I should tell, my new current temp address is the 14th floor of a building. Facing the bay. With the Anzac bridge placed delicately over it. The crystal blue waters match the clear blue skies perfectly. Even the white floating yachts imitate the luscious clouds. It's scintillating, the view from here. The township on this side of the bay isn't too de rigueur. The paper mache browns of the buildings are well compensated by the greens and yellows of the winter season.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's close to a scene out of a fairytale. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In the current temp, it's still a little messy- the room, the luggage, the hair. The suitcases are all open. Yet to be unpacked. Don't know it's worth yet. The current temp validation is only until another day. And then the next one, for a week perhaps. Maybe a few juggles around, until.. until some time.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Learning the ways of nomadic fate. (living out of suitcases)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The stage never gives you second chance, so I prefer photos and videos. The camera is able to capture real and deep emotions. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWT3d5qSk0M1EDTUQZbQIEQodAcCdeiWVxflffDi6OMUL83eObh_aO9cb04e98dbEf1ssq71ZJ25KPNCHbatrNdZ_byjzvImCJWzo-wLTYcAn_CtpC1LGavYAU-ItYkD-Lnz0Z4rZlVs/s1600/nlnl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWT3d5qSk0M1EDTUQZbQIEQodAcCdeiWVxflffDi6OMUL83eObh_aO9cb04e98dbEf1ssq71ZJ25KPNCHbatrNdZ_byjzvImCJWzo-wLTYcAn_CtpC1LGavYAU-ItYkD-Lnz0Z4rZlVs/s640/nlnl.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"It doesn't matter if I dance well or not- the most important thing is that it is real."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-41386500522369036542016-04-24T10:30:00.000-07:002016-04-24T11:03:59.637-07:00Work In Progress.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Probably the longest I've gone without blogging something. Not that I didn't scribble here and there from time to time, or at least I think.<br />
Thinking if I should bother cooking up an excuse. Isn't it something we all look for in stories, 'answers'. I could probably talk about how I've been preoccupied with work (for 5 whole months, day in day out, what, are you kidding me!). Or maybe figuring a life plan, I am 24 after all, it is time I decide where to go here on, professionally, personally (could work, age beneficiary, and all of those 'what are you doing with your life' questions from ever concerned parents).<br />
<br />
Honestly, I'd be shamming it. (epiphany post countless Friends and House MD episodes later)<br />
<br />
I'm going to talk about how I was looking for some sort of of right kind of inspiration. (And that's my excuse of the millennium, you don't get you use it. Ha.)<br />
Okay, 'nuff with the jokes.<br />
<br />
For those of you who've missed out, I have made it to the news headlines. Look from afar, I have it all figured. I have the coolest job- working this awesome profile. Try topping that with getting to do your own room after a lifetime of planning. That's that. Let's see, job, house, I think I've covered it all. Almost.<br />
Recent turn of randomness made me apply for masters. I started with Delhi...Mumbai maybe...considering other states, more cities, keep options open.<br />
<br />
I won't bore you with the details. I am leaving soon. The continent. Barely 30 days to go.<br />
<br />
All formalities done. Well, getting there.<br />
<br />
Been super busy collecting stuff to take. I have a blue suitcase close by and a one-way ticket in hand. The pile of clothes to be packed in the corner of the room is a literal version of <i>a mountain out of a molehill</i>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxT6EuYnDf_M-NzoorGVWG4KjHF1405el2duN6l6vrvcEOwFQOazr60yD9Ic8z-QaguhqyDPoB62KBMKqNNzUmcQEMO3twFklZLhCFHQR-FWe2kcJRfMNpq-uxXRJe1wiUrid7hvV-E8s/s1600/case+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxT6EuYnDf_M-NzoorGVWG4KjHF1405el2duN6l6vrvcEOwFQOazr60yD9Ic8z-QaguhqyDPoB62KBMKqNNzUmcQEMO3twFklZLhCFHQR-FWe2kcJRfMNpq-uxXRJe1wiUrid7hvV-E8s/s640/case+copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suitcases and Jetplanes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Ps. The need to write this one came while I was in a metro-train and found myself dancing to the music blaring in my headphones. I loved every bit it. </div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-48094540574233146472015-11-05T10:30:00.000-08:002015-11-08T06:46:35.055-08:00Zeitgeist.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s dicey typing on laptop now. The screen
keeps jiggling, apparently office madness made me plonk it around a few times. As exciting as it gets around here. Beat you, didn’t I.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Few
things on mind.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Gentlemen, progress has never been a
bargain. You got to pay for it. Sometimes I think there’s a man behind the
counter who says, “All right, you can have the telephone; but you’ll have to
give up the privacy, the charm of distance. Madam, you may vote; but at a
price; you lose the right to retreat behind powderpuff or petticoat. Mister,
you may conquer the air; but the birds will lose their wonder, and the clouds will
smell of gasoline.”</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just as this character launches himself
into this speech, it gets me wondering about the changes around. Take a second
off my coffee table at the café, it’s a rare sight to see people talk amongst
one another without lifting an eye from their tiny screens for a even a moment.
The lost art of devouring books, or conversations on vacations. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ps. I’m a wreck with technology. FYI, tonight
I also learned I miscalculate the ‘right-left’ directions too.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That’s not what all this is supposed to be
about. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Recently, had the urge to go off the face of the earth, socially, obviously. While deactivating facebook, it asked if I wanted
to do the same for the blog page I created. Got me wondering why I created it
in the first place. I remember my first publication. My first article. My blog
wasn’t it. It was a dream come true. It was published. For people to read. Something
I had written. Nightmare come true. Eventually as time passed, frequency of publications
increased, I got a hang of the critiques’ taste. What I actually write is till
date only up for selective few. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don’t mind me. I am awed by the ones who
can write when asked to, whatever asked to. Amazingly impressed with the ones
who can cater to the taste of their audience and themselves. I think I've
tried. I think I aspired for it secretly once. To impart that burning vision.
To share the true brilliance of the truth. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You know? The ones, they are the ones who
put thoughts to paper, and not start to wonder, ponder, scheme only when they
face the blank canvas. I envy them. It’d be insane to have a market chase you
for a book signing, to be a huge success. To be a writer?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why do you write? Why do the others write? </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What’s my, or anyone’s relation of writing
to being a successful writer? Is that what’s the ultimate goal is?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEKvHA3BLLEQvaJV5P_hYcM8tC2CbzCusvc5dFMQfh0bm3CgY5cy_jGpUmplycRikhy1jBuj_zcnNbd_JPvEmz_A7OTqPl6OUFnuqRP2BvZA4WQtrQGQlPad8AYEFER142sZtP62_9rg/s1600/nh7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEKvHA3BLLEQvaJV5P_hYcM8tC2CbzCusvc5dFMQfh0bm3CgY5cy_jGpUmplycRikhy1jBuj_zcnNbd_JPvEmz_A7OTqPl6OUFnuqRP2BvZA4WQtrQGQlPad8AYEFER142sZtP62_9rg/s640/nh7.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artistic bedlam.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I write, like I choose my music. Chaotic,
erratic. Random. Experimental. Thoughtlessly flirting with words. Festival of
jumping from one feeling to another mood. Tenor in some, alienated in the
others. The freedom is thrilling. The rush is exhilarating. (I may often miss
the sweet spot or two, but..freedom is petrifying).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I think about the next blank paper,
endless thoughts and questions fill my mindspace. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">picture credits: Gauree Sharma</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-1718582962415880212015-10-01T06:09:00.000-07:002016-05-02T01:39:39.378-07:00Study in blue.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I needed some simplicity. "Write about it", she said.<br />
<br />
That was the thought in my head I woke up with. Last night's devilish Cosmopolitans still swaying soft around my lips. It was a pretty special night, last one at that. And now here I lay in my blanket-den with the remnant thoughts violating each breathing cell.<br />
I knew I'd have to crawl out at one point or the other. Though I really didn't ever want to leave my blanket or even move for that matter. The hammer in my head breathing of restlessness. In flashes, I linked substances from the night before. Half-dazed, wondering about the ride back home. Pining away about the worthless excuse of a head or sense.<br />
<br />
Something had changed over the past few hours. Hazily, I shifted a little in bed. A lilt of heartbeats. Flashes, about the fired passions. Don't know how long that'd go on for.<br />
<br />
"I wish you would say something that doesn't bore me, dare you, to ask me something that'd make me stay." Was one of the morning calls before I jumped back into bed back home.<br />
I found the courage to peek out of my blanket. My senses still nascent. Random checkered memories sneaked up to me. Apart of me besides me even so raw and soft, asleep. Tad bits that fortified the break of the sun through the glass.<br />
There's this stage of beauty- the pretty, the praise, the attraction, the screeching scream to grab the eye. And then there's this arena of self-aware. The comfort. The strong, gentle lighting grace. Snuggling into the monster, inconsequentially, the sparks had infused to crystals. You get used to it no matter where you go, where you may travel to. The layer, the guard already distinctly shed. (spotless silver lines)<br />
In trance, time warped me.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nhmcdbCS0i77tu9UyzZpaXmF4JZeMc1RMF31EZH8WWo39jVz_Y8saidoprxwfwKLDYou98VUZYF0Ke-XSLXJ4G876DOyUnYLvloN8VQTDexAVo-Q67ws5w22SlPwqWSNVX9tVqnK0cU/s1600/12019758_10204905769502676_9155559479996429315_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nhmcdbCS0i77tu9UyzZpaXmF4JZeMc1RMF31EZH8WWo39jVz_Y8saidoprxwfwKLDYou98VUZYF0Ke-XSLXJ4G876DOyUnYLvloN8VQTDexAVo-Q67ws5w22SlPwqWSNVX9tVqnK0cU/s400/12019758_10204905769502676_9155559479996429315_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Incognito vex.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"When you are mad, mad like this, you don't know it. Reality is what you see. When what you see shifts, departing from anyone else's reality, it's still reality to you."</span></i><br />
(madness, this mind of mine)<br />
<br />
<br />
~Spaces filled in with the cool morning breeze.</div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-12194926937298294262015-09-26T09:28:00.000-07:002015-09-26T20:06:17.510-07:00Sketches in letters.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
"I will find color in your darkness.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg27hnS0syMhVnxBlWcafd-QdTX0ApxgYNzSODisFgR6J2bQEs7pP9qcRDqn-7s1SlTon0EHQs5wvOExa-tSe8wvIhhlmtnR17d-VUrO4RHxpqhVIJE41xUrfhj_7X0xF4ojU2UdkOQ2nI/s1600/balletsocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg27hnS0syMhVnxBlWcafd-QdTX0ApxgYNzSODisFgR6J2bQEs7pP9qcRDqn-7s1SlTon0EHQs5wvOExa-tSe8wvIhhlmtnR17d-VUrO4RHxpqhVIJE41xUrfhj_7X0xF4ojU2UdkOQ2nI/s400/balletsocks.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<br />
I will look through each door.<br />
<br />
Put apart each house.<br />
<br />
Dismantle each emotion.<br />
<br />
But I will find your color<br />
<br />
I will find you."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Words are lost. Words fade. You and I do too. (do we?)<br />
<br />
The more I think, more the idea gets tangled up in my knotted head. They say I'm oblivious. I must be a little more obvious in my words. How beautiful is the game of expressions, how would I ever tell. The fury, the lull of a lover's quarrel, or the soars of a heartbeat under the star-night- write about it for me, won't you.<br />
<br />
Brick walls are there for a reason. Brick walls are meant to be broken.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hIWoSA4r4G7CEv_4yi1Q5jCdPRTs32Skn1K2Mk3Zuorb1KrDkSDRsmFs-fPsoqGOjcPyvURHfjYkklVs-R7CqLnE_O7HUbu8DXBi_fOgOSJCjAdvcmae8dsddRfU0t3M2tVWbH6X3Vo/s1600/ballet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hIWoSA4r4G7CEv_4yi1Q5jCdPRTs32Skn1K2Mk3Zuorb1KrDkSDRsmFs-fPsoqGOjcPyvURHfjYkklVs-R7CqLnE_O7HUbu8DXBi_fOgOSJCjAdvcmae8dsddRfU0t3M2tVWbH6X3Vo/s400/ballet.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Mine are vulnerably monochrome.<br />
<br />
Anywhere, and I will follow.<br />
<br />
This isn't about me. This isn't about you either. Neither is it about the kids playing fire 'n ice on the terrace today. Nor did I start writing keeping the messages in mind. This isn't about my thoughts, or the pain.<br />
<br />
Words over my head, I know nothing at all. Stumbling, falling, learning to walk, I'm breaking the habitual stability.<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<br /></div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-26294805362150295492015-08-07T04:18:00.000-07:002015-08-07T06:03:51.958-07:00Expressions. (divenire)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
*post script first. </div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
There's this soft tone playing in my head tonight. The slow curves of a sketched figurine on a paper caught my attention, all (only) just in my head. Inspired in my own passion, I retrieve all of lost essentials, with the fire ablaze, I move into the new turns.<br />
<br />
Time passes by when I think of the last time, when was it, that we played our little game of catch a crook, or was it hide and seek around that old tree in the backyard. That childhood past, oh, how long has it been. Get a new hobby, they tell me now. Start something new, they advice. Learn a culture, they ask. What's new, they implore. Now, they question. I stare into the warehouse of my head- sparkling eyes, wandering souls, stolen smiles- I answer, as I pack my tools, there's so much for me to do.<br />
<br />
The dreamers, my culture, as I stumble to answer.<br />
<br />
The musical figurines, my new hobby to tell and paint and dance and sketch and turn wheels. The craft.<br />
<br />
I don't come from this world of real.<br />
~I grew up in glass castles and amongst hollow enchanted caves. It was somewhere around where dreams are made- oh, could be the golden pot at the end of a rainbow.<br />
Silly, you called me. Dreams, still lead me on.<br />
Just see my work station, you'd know what I'm talking about. (Of course I work). But I still secretly live in the notion of my need to fall asleep to let Amelia Jane roam about along with the other billion little elves.<br />
<br />
I'm the misfit outsider. The weird writer. The wary dancer. The difference. The dreamer.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFwSXaGbW7FjhfeVDjkbKSdBbtWEVo2sy_NsXfRajvnxKL0bMPE72WCRaryBaD3uFWZ455nzZ7nIClMCOqUSNOigsjaUFn6YJt_PEWxo_W499N47yflNnfYaO6DChhEA2EDCX2ecM7ZoI/s1600/_DSC6593.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFwSXaGbW7FjhfeVDjkbKSdBbtWEVo2sy_NsXfRajvnxKL0bMPE72WCRaryBaD3uFWZ455nzZ7nIClMCOqUSNOigsjaUFn6YJt_PEWxo_W499N47yflNnfYaO6DChhEA2EDCX2ecM7ZoI/s640/_DSC6593.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'she dances to the song in her head,<br />
speaks with the rhythm of her heart,<br />
and loves from the depth of her soul.'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #999999;">Post Script.</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;">Starting out as fiction, balancing on words and wires, it is something i'm growing to live in. The song is still playing, is what added to words rolling in. (Ludovici Einaudi- nuvole bianche)</span><br />
<br /></div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-14233651325964653082015-05-02T13:37:00.002-07:002015-05-02T13:37:38.833-07:00Treehouses.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hi.<br />
<br />
You remember the treehouse we played in, don't you. Those childhood days out in the sun between bees and bumbles. Simpler times of counting stars while learning rhymes at night on the swing in the balcony. And the early morning runs and squash-squat terms, not to forget the swimming lessons, also the unarmed basketball sessions.<br />
<br />
In my mind space even today, I find myself waking up every morning palpable with over-worked breathing, running around helter skelter to complete the day, keep clean just to slowly set into the dusk. Come back home. Back to my mind space, to the swing in the balcony under the night sky- near the treehouse.<br />
<br />
When I put the sheets on to hide-away, you'd pull the sheets off my face and watch me sleep all day. And when I'd slam my fingers in the window, you'd kill all the pain away. Remember when I tripped off the staircase and scared you. You hugged me so close.<br />
<br />
~When the rest of the world is asleep<br />
Do you remember that night when you and me<br />
Pulled down the steeple of ash<br />
The rain was coming down, I was filthy and black?<br />
(i was calling out for you)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CA_4pHdf4lUmZqZLbykRutEKZGk0M7kETEPeZlBd_wS2Qj2PauBwAGPtKcSeRB-kphafssL_zwBPZYgQzjcBPanfAUQVLhfJzEXzwdjFwkjeqa3BhiUhA5GTovyeI0bPMfIyhPH3AKM/s1600/treehouses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CA_4pHdf4lUmZqZLbykRutEKZGk0M7kETEPeZlBd_wS2Qj2PauBwAGPtKcSeRB-kphafssL_zwBPZYgQzjcBPanfAUQVLhfJzEXzwdjFwkjeqa3BhiUhA5GTovyeI0bPMfIyhPH3AKM/s1600/treehouses.jpg" height="400" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wind and the wave.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Tribute.<br />
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-13376841622386988082015-02-11T11:02:00.002-08:002015-02-11T11:50:02.893-08:00Alba.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"The winter has passed,<br>
<div>
and the sun shines upon her."</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
<i>Madrugada</i>- it's that moment at dawn when the night greets the day. Did you hear about the <i>alba</i> at dawn, the poem about the separation of the lovers, a love song about parting at dawn. Taking them away from the night fall, the magic of the stars, the warmth of the bonfire and the blanket of the cold breeze. </div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
Think of love, the passion, the searing heat, the colors- oh, the covers, and the abandonment. And the pain following; the pain, leading.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
A cry for help, an age old tear shed in mourning, an <i>aubade</i> for the night to stay without an end, for the beloved to never leave her arms, and the guard to kiss the daybreak. Oh, how soon it all ends. Just now was it that night fell upon them. Sheltered by the dark, the heat smeared through their veins. Like reignited amber, there they lay in one another's arms, safe in the cover of the night. With hands entwined, eyes locked with each others', breathing as one, their passions lay hidden from the daylight. It was the calm of their heartbeats. As he drank in her gracious breath, admiring her, he holds her one last time loyally in her arms. The fear of the pipe whistle haunts each. </div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
The day will break soon, and the bond must be broken. Separate lives must be assumed and followed in.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
The space now fills the cool shadows of abandonment. Spreading away from the shadows, her bare-bruised shoulder now lies exposed in the break of dawn. The day is setting in, drawing unwelcome patterns over the covers. The eyes that stayed locked in the rumpled sheets with hands laced together through dark, now sense their cue of pale separation. </div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
With the light in their souls, he leans in to softly lay one last kiss goodbye as her eyes slink open to the tears now tying them together.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
~This day the sun will rise</div>
<div>
on a new intent</div>
<div>
Choices, may they be wise,</div>
<div>
To bring each a smile,</div>
<div>
do one good deed</div>
<div>
Take time to pray awhile</div>
<div>
His words I'll heed.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
<br></div>
</div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-26541485816446779082014-11-14T09:06:00.000-08:002014-11-14T10:37:48.509-08:00walking over wet grass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At what point in life do we feel it's safe to say it's sorted. You know, we are good for life, life can't get any better. And that is the point you have achieved it all. Everything you will ever need and want is there, at arm's length.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Loved ones *touchwood* sitting all around, with the smile of content and giggle of secrets shared. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Corporate slavery, doesn't seem so abysmal, opposite in fact. Where, at what age, is it all golden. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Questions fill up my anyway cluttered head. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I take off my slippers and stepped barefeet on the dewdropped grass. I lay there staring at the glaring moonlight in my face. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I'm 23. And I'm golden. As I can be. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I tilt my head. The dew shimmers in agreement.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvgO1nNLLnrngdsq9tHsc67wD0uFJVO-fWxeNUIYwzZL_tWys26JOz25d67i1k_v5dbUhnYE7hYBKX0K_AClapfDdsikIwoQhvOfz7VhI2i4CO8B_YzbeoPUp2Dg7OYA2mkgHciRie5Q/s1600/PSX_20141114_215558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvgO1nNLLnrngdsq9tHsc67wD0uFJVO-fWxeNUIYwzZL_tWys26JOz25d67i1k_v5dbUhnYE7hYBKX0K_AClapfDdsikIwoQhvOfz7VhI2i4CO8B_YzbeoPUp2Dg7OYA2mkgHciRie5Q/s1600/PSX_20141114_215558.jpg" height="358" width="640"></a></div>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-988956162706533132014-10-27T10:35:00.000-07:002014-10-27T10:35:14.905-07:00Wanderlust.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've lived my life in phases. To write a book, I'd write one of so many flavors and stories. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">~The night strung together, and the stars, so distant in the skies shiver, blue, twinkling. Slowly, the wind turned in my favour. It turns again, and sings softly in my ears. The magic recreates itself. Tonight, I held her in my arms. Close, not tight. Stroking the shadow of the eyes, not distant. The infinite starlit sky danced overhead in the harmony. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the morning came on in its ultimate glory, flawless.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Treading a subdued kiss on life, and it takes the path it was always meant to. My soul is content to have finally lost those whitened nights. Its autumn outside my window now. Unspoken heaven of golden leaves and the smug fog at dusk. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">"<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.0059986114502px;">Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.0059986114502px;"><span style="color: white;">Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,</span></span><div>
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.0059986114502px;"><span style="color: white;">These are the last lines I will write for her.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.0059986114502px;">I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.0059986114502px;">"</span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.0059986114502px;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_AkSma-Zf8t9nTNJQ0KS2KgEMei2mBeXCHFDdTnRsjn9utBlkxCp1ZStbBO-2-Dcz14wlsC1la2ExSt-NBDQECa7mGbW2pFfQydM5j4_f8nEYYQEYfn459e-3tLjf9ey433_KLJpyo8/s1600/aisle-+shift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_AkSma-Zf8t9nTNJQ0KS2KgEMei2mBeXCHFDdTnRsjn9utBlkxCp1ZStbBO-2-Dcz14wlsC1la2ExSt-NBDQECa7mGbW2pFfQydM5j4_f8nEYYQEYfn459e-3tLjf9ey433_KLJpyo8/s1600/aisle-+shift.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shifting Aisle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.0059986114502px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Someone should write a book where the main character slowly falls in love with the reader.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm someone- Wanderlust. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-62286723562685119832014-09-18T11:58:00.001-07:002014-09-18T11:58:10.026-07:00Faceless Strangers.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
We all have that dream. The one with our faceless stranger. At one time or another, that dream about you and her. That dream you so distinctly remember and yet, her face seems faded into your memories. This dream so symbolic, so intimidating. So tantalizingly mystical. Hidden, repressed, crooning in your dream about how each of us have that side we don't show- sometimes even ourselves. Living deep within, you'll find this faceless stranger.<br />
<br />
This probably means more than I thought it would. Stories of untold smiles, unsaid tears, held back words; and a faceless stranger.<br />
<br />
Its something so simple, so plain. That thought of meeting someone today. Randomly, think of the innumerable lives you touched today. What if you missed your perfect dream out there in the crowd.<br />
<br />
~Maybe he sees her again. Maybe he doesn't.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"In the story's faceless lair."<br />
-raw. emotional. me.</div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-74160312408341876712014-09-02T01:38:00.000-07:002014-09-02T01:50:56.725-07:00Windchimes.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;"><span style="color: white;">I hear the wind ring the bells and chimes outside the window. Here, where the sunshine falls on the bordering clouds, is where I'm sitting writing today. </span></span><br>
<span style="background-color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;"><span style="color: white;">Did you forget me already? So soon, is it. Or are you actually anticipating, wearing your heart on sleeve. That would be nice to hear once in a while rather than you seeing mine. Isn't it gloomy outside, or was that yesterday. I was still at this window looking down the path leading me out of here, anywhere. </span></span><br>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;">It mustn't have been really long, has it. Must be though. Changes show otherwise. </span></span><br>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;"><br></span></span>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;">~Its a long winding road,</span></span><br>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;">Winds around me engulf the sound of the chimes.</span></span><br>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;">I seek the path ahead- i think long;</span></span><br>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;">leave me at the shore,</span></span><br>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;">that day, that time..</span></span><br>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;">I'd travel to another land.</span></span><br>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;"><br></span></span>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;">That's the dream knit.. in the time being.</span></span><br>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;"><br></span></span>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.005998611450195px;">It's where I see the sunshine envelope rain and wind banners passing through life.</span></span><br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credits: SK.</td></tr>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-81587819908230625342014-07-28T04:41:00.003-07:002014-07-28T04:41:34.597-07:00Sand in my shoes.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I searched till the corners of the world, to look for you. But here you were, all along, right next to me. Ever since I learned my first steps.<br />
<br />
I'd run to you, playing around that pillar. You always healed those wounds when I'd topple over the pebbles on the road. My first rhymes and the tales, of fairies and fables, you taught me word by word.<br />
I'm growing up now. I play a different beat. I sing a disparate song. You stand by, defining my differential unconventionally for my ownself. You're still the personification of the pillar I need to run about to make a day.<br />
I'm growing up now. You take steps forward with me.<br />
Giving this and that, and all those unsaid dreams wings, keeping me grounded, I'd have been confused but makes sense with you. It's not all dreams and wishes and plans, but also a mixture of do's and don'ts, the links, the aim, the feelings, with just the adequate amount of pinch of reality.<br />
I've learned, to walk with my head held high, no matter the destruction to mask. Your words, your presence, 'you' motivate that. 'You' inspire that. I see myself driven to be half as inspiring.<br />
I'm growing up now. When I have, I hope to be able to scuffling through a lot of sand.<br />
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Ps. There are a million 'I's and 'You's out there. From me, it's to all those pillars in my life making it all possible. Life isn't a fairy tale, so we get these few for just the close resemblance. We fight, we throttle each other at times. We go out for decent dinners, we also sometimes are close enough to burning a place down. A child, a friend, a sister, a brother, a companion; they're in so many roles around you. Take a moment. Feel happy.<br />
Pick up that phone, make that overdue call.</div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-44300902779242641172014-07-20T23:26:00.001-07:002014-07-20T23:26:49.777-07:00Boondein.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I heard that wave splashing off the shore today. Again.<br />
Stepping right out of my clockwork, speckled across the face, were those driblets. Like heartbeats, the sounds of the slight piano paddles waddling through, the spatter of the cars passing by, carrying us over the winds till where those tiny droplets reside.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzYoxy3dnsW7X6o7JZpSXS04MTnnwqfV8mdlLr0_h6QIZSbfpb6h8fDYXXk6Y-GoRA1XEV7UmHpD5d_42lIeT9IKl7h-wnjRIHRV4fHGJakd185eQ4ZoK1yFwy0sd4gyAhTK4b1ptkoY/s1600/droplets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzYoxy3dnsW7X6o7JZpSXS04MTnnwqfV8mdlLr0_h6QIZSbfpb6h8fDYXXk6Y-GoRA1XEV7UmHpD5d_42lIeT9IKl7h-wnjRIHRV4fHGJakd185eQ4ZoK1yFwy0sd4gyAhTK4b1ptkoY/s1600/droplets.jpg" height="354" width="640" /></a></div>
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It's your calling.</div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-25940050523139240052014-07-16T23:30:00.001-07:002014-07-16T23:30:38.056-07:00Querencia.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Did you say it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘I love you.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘I don’t ever want to live without you.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘You changed my life.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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Did you say it?<o:p></o:p></div>
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~Make a plan. Set a goal. Work towards it. But every now and
then, look around. Drink it in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Because, this is it. It might all be gone tomorrow.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgec6_q0ANfkKUCT4lWFUxX0pNH7ngGZCDcg91_A1j0CIrUv5hU_8rlN1h2Rg0ZJ3zxLIRNwhiVrAKvBklMTHFSouKlKs2QrO5qL2kbdVUmXZqP5nN4anRqp9D5Bh4YgnGgP1HEpQHNJKY/s1600/DSC02484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgec6_q0ANfkKUCT4lWFUxX0pNH7ngGZCDcg91_A1j0CIrUv5hU_8rlN1h2Rg0ZJ3zxLIRNwhiVrAKvBklMTHFSouKlKs2QrO5qL2kbdVUmXZqP5nN4anRqp9D5Bh4YgnGgP1HEpQHNJKY/s1600/DSC02484.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">choices. chances. changes. </td></tr>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-21962894890984185612014-07-07T03:26:00.000-07:002014-07-07T10:54:43.806-07:00Sculptures.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
'Weathering the endless storms<br>
for rare glimpses of magic<br>
each winter </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">is both,<br>
a blessing and a curse I relish.'<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWstU_8rnOR9qA03Vyf7yg4waBfF8_g7CouAKncQz9cuV-E9QyGVYR_JfMY-PbRyXON-Lt7UrWExEXnBQqmsHRwImgoPgZrT7qw5pmluBnEiiIDb6IPpWi7XmxWKT1fNnCnPmtdh77BjY/s1600/IMG_20140706_002453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWstU_8rnOR9qA03Vyf7yg4waBfF8_g7CouAKncQz9cuV-E9QyGVYR_JfMY-PbRyXON-Lt7UrWExEXnBQqmsHRwImgoPgZrT7qw5pmluBnEiiIDb6IPpWi7XmxWKT1fNnCnPmtdh77BjY/s1600/IMG_20140706_002453.jpg" height="358" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">phoenix</td></tr>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-54474641947535615662014-07-04T03:12:00.001-07:002014-07-05T10:38:28.136-07:00Kairos.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I make it a point to always give a lot of thought to the title of anything. It's what defines what's going to come next, what it is going to be about. In that moment, you must know what i'm talking about, what i'm referring to, where i'm leading to, where to i wish to head. But that's me.<br />
So, this comes in here. This is the fleeting rightness of time and space that create the opportune atmosphere, the perfect moment of actions, movement and words. This is where my world turns into ours. This is the place shared in the furious course of life.<br />
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How many times would you open a book, a page, with something in mind? Where you know what to expect, where you already have the start and an end to something made up. How many times would you blindly step into the dark? Or take that one step yet ahead on the cliff? Would you?<br />
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Look around. See. Understand. Listen. Hear. Sounds, lights, people, shades, patterns. Notice. Grasp. Capture. Save it.<br />
Think, how many of these are willing to take that sealed road ahead?<br />
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Dive into the ocean. Breathe.<br />
Dig into the snow. Feel the chill down your spine.<br />
Step out in the rain. Smile at the offer of a shared roof.<br />
Plan. Breakthrough.<br />
Jump off a cliff. Skip a heartbeat.<br />
<br />
Watch life through the lens.<br />
'Be the dark side of the lens.'<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejGVV9H-fwA0XNwb-TxM7WJksIcdxhzkL9oxdBRSmbMgVCvBZXAKT9Tmh_fpGH-HAblamQfn8O_LA5IgYYNIaN-GEFGFtTeXizXaaf11h2ked2L2O6NGA3GttWC_mxpAZNxVgrobxBsA/s1600/kairos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejGVV9H-fwA0XNwb-TxM7WJksIcdxhzkL9oxdBRSmbMgVCvBZXAKT9Tmh_fpGH-HAblamQfn8O_LA5IgYYNIaN-GEFGFtTeXizXaaf11h2ked2L2O6NGA3GttWC_mxpAZNxVgrobxBsA/s1600/kairos.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">eyes of a wayfarer.</td></tr>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-8223336513779213742014-06-24T02:12:00.000-07:002014-06-24T02:56:14.022-07:00Ubuntu.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In an age where most of us have lost touch with the life and rhythm of magic, the cycle of the ye</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">ar is a sure way back into the Center of Life. </span></span><br>
<span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This tale has been told since generations. Its that time where out of the greatest darkness, the light of the world is reborn. Here forth, the light grows and the hours of darkness will begin to slowly lessen. </span></span><br>
<span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Marking open fire to this darkness, even though the days were smaller, there was hope and joy lighting up the house. Gathering around for that story, the fairy tale, I'd glow up in the light of the stars. As I grow older, I take my mother's place as the storyteller, and it's my turn to tell you the tale of generations. </span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;"><br></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;">It's a story about the inevitable cycle, the journey of birth, growth, fulfillment, decline, death turning back to birth. Darkness has forever remained a puzzle, a riddle calling out for an answer by itself. An impression on sight, a slight tickle to awareness as it fled by, darkness came along with premonitions of its own. I never feared it, I'd always say instantly. Somehow, it made me appreciate the daylight so much more. Someway, it made light breaking through cracks seem so magical and beautiful. But people didn't see it, they grew accustomed, they came on accord with this change. So they missed the darkness taking over.</span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;">Darkness deepened. Chaos and mayhem drowned the town. Stumbling around the dark, people began to lose sight of just about everything.</span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;">A woman, neither old nor young, longing the shimmer of the light in her eyes, in memory of the lights, saw what no one in the land saw. Her children, neither bairn nor big, had that light in them, that light which imbibed her own soul. But it was growing tougher by the day to fight the dusk. So, to return that light in their soul to her children, she committed herself to set out on a journey. A journey to travel in search of the light amiss and implore it to return to the land it once inhabited. With no conception of how long it may take, she wanted the children to take care of each other, to love each other, and remember her love for them each day. </span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;">Despite the agony of leaving the two behind, she set out into the cold lonely winter night. Walking past the dreary dew dipped grass, she sang to the light she remembered. Dimmed by the richness of the night, the stars and the moon in the heaven above sang in her glory, her journey. Rejoicing in the thought of finally seeing the light again, she finally reached the outskirts of the land.</span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;">But what welcomed her was more of an appalling image of bedlam. Dug up fields, lost animals, uprooted trees, she saw houses being dismantled and everyone in a rush, in desperate hunt for something. That was the land of lost gold. But there it was, right in the middle of everything, the patch of green, a single bare-branched tree. And midst below the tree was the summer sunrise to the world, unnoticed, unseen by the peers in the dark. This wasn't hers to keep. Before moving on with her quest, she spotted someone out there. With the eyes of a dreamer, he seemed to be building a house, a home. She defined the hazy ray of glimmer to him, making him promise to do up the entire land as his home.</span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;">Asleep beneath a tree in the woods, she dreamed of the moon descend down from the heaven and bury itself deep below a tree. She awakened to dig up the ground to have found a crystal pear, at which point the villagers raided in and shattered every last bit of it. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><font face="Georgia, Times New Roman, serif"><span style="line-height: 31.671875px;"><br></span></font>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;">Finally awake, out of her dream, in hope for an answer, she found herself step into the underworld of dreams and imaginations. It was different here, even the darkness felt warm, nothing like the world above. She walked in deeper, she saw flower buds snug in, just as she tucked her children in. The rivers and streams so pure, flowed through crystal rocks. The stones, so gorgeous rivaled the most beautiful of sunsets and gemstones. Past all this, she walked till the center of the earth. In that dark cavern, in the purest of watery depths, she saw the luminous light. Gazing, in the heart of the shining halo, she saw, a child, the most wondrous and innocent one. Just as mothers do, she smiled at the sight of the child enveloped in the light. The child smiled back and she heard as though a child's voice whisper, "I have waited for you so long! How glad I am you have finally come."</span></span><br>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;"><br></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 31.68000030517578px;">~It's a story about Grace. Grace, it's a gift the Spirits bestow on all of us, whether deserving, or not. It is that unexpected, unmeasured gift of Love. </span></span><br>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-26932496148435823352014-06-22T05:48:00.000-07:002014-06-22T08:52:51.381-07:00Stories.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So, that's how it starts. In a random phone call, middle of the night, all teary (maybe crying, hopefully laughing).. but however, it led to this, couldn't be that bad.<br>
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It all happened a couple of days ago. A bright sunny day, the clouds had finally given way to sunshine. She sat pretty with the sun shining up her face. With the glitter in her eyes, she soared up towards the horizon. Somewhere on the way, the doors to a home opened up. Most as soon as she found solace in a perfect corner, is when the war broke off. It must have shattered her heart to not be accepted with open arms or an open heart. But the keeper had to establish boundaries. It was a necessity, more of an involuntary thing. It's that feeling of your space, your zone being invaded and the lengths you'd go to to protect it. So that's what they both did. She protected herself with a smile, that's all she has. And the other arguing the mind and heart, trying to understand this newcomer- to share home.<br>
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~All our stories don't always have a happy ending. Freedom, acceptance and revamping; takes time and grit.<br>
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The bird was a passerine. 'Is' a passerine. She flew in that day and decided to stay. The not-dog Hazel fought while the little mocking bird sat up the window sill. It was quite a sight really, seeing them play catch and cook around the house. But she refused to budge and leave the house, or fly off. Some of us are nesters. After half an hour of rigorous chasing and fighting amongst the two, they finally decided to take a break. All this mostly went about in my room itself. We made a video of the not-dog trying to fly up to the funny-bird plonked on the paddle.<br>
Well, end of the day, we are all friends and I stay with a not-dog and a not-bird. One still lying lazy next to the bed, and the other still sprawled idle on the paddle.<br>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-39773161922753053612014-06-09T08:50:00.000-07:002014-06-09T08:52:23.675-07:00Ría.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Blank. Absolutely blank.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And there are such times too. Funny how we keep harping on
never having our minds without a thought in it, and still find ourselves with
that dazed expression staring into nothingness and space. What’s that one
specific thought setting you into the transition of trance. (It’s a question.)
That one last thing you seem to recall before driving into the sunset.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, this is new. You can write with a blank mind too
apparently. That’s a first. What’s it about, all the chaos and rush around
that’s making words pour out. Past nights and storms, dawn came around
eclipses. <o:p></o:p></div>
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~Change is my constant. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PC: Gauree Sharma.</td></tr>
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815230481619213967.post-64281593390366376522014-05-02T10:08:00.001-07:002014-05-02T10:08:04.897-07:00Infinity. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Stages in life, one must see, feel, think and get par.<br />
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One. Start the dream. Step into the purity of it, the vividity merging deep into each sense. It's there to take over, to break past what's real. Helpless, willingly, hold the hand and walk.<br />
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Two. It's on the way there. Somewhere. With eyes closed, and a shy smile spreading through the darkness, it condenses that sparkle.<br />
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Three. Life, becomes the dream itself. The sunset, the sunrise, even the midnight. Heights taken, clouds shrouded, its the catch to the blind fall. Roll in into arms of colors, patterns and lights.<br />
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Four. Tap on the bridge between visible and invisible. Even the dense nightfall brings out its fireflies. Magic, is all around, bridging that gap.<br />
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Five. Fairy lights, slow dancing in the burning room. All elements ablaze, the chill in the water doesn't break the fervor in that fire. Mirrors reflecting the union, the collaboration.<br />
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Six. Walk down the aisle (the dream is coming, for you and for me). Magpies carpet the way. Daffodils carve stones. Sun drops down snowflakes. Names are written to evince.<br />
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Seven. Infinity is to infinity. Seep into the state of trance. Its taken over completely, without a cell to breathe. Belongings, are already declared.<br />
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Eight. The last kiss on the lips. Dreams as these don't end. It grows. Its growing. Raising its child. Hustling through the thunderstorms to keep that child breathing.<br />
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Nine. Slip away. Soul-mate, the prodigy. Years of patience, and its here. The joy, the elixir beyond, free of the poison. Life, breathing slowly into dream (and it awakening the life in me).<br />
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~These eyes still inhabit glass castles, dreams, magic, fairy dust and a Prince Charming. Tears still haven't welled up in these eyes. There's nothing for keeps, so these live in memories what came by, and dreams and illusions of them. Look closely, and one may find what they never should. Stare as much as they wish not to. Mirrors shimmering in the dark, these eyes will always smile. For that dream.<br />
"Da cosa nasce cosa."<br />
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All roads lead to just one heart. Mine.<br />
Fall in love with it, and it'll keep you alive for the rest of eternity beyond this life.<br />
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Anahitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165631942883513029noreply@blogger.com1