Words, it bears remembering
Are simply acoustics, sounds
And breath warmed by the body
Mixed till sweet, sour, bitter or pungent
They cannot break your skin,
Choke air from lungs, pierce organs,
Burst arteries or sever limbs
Yet somehow they tear through
Eardrums, towards skull, seeking
Deepest abscesses of minds
Darkest corners of souls
Rooting out the weakest spots
Ravaging them like carnivores
Eating away at the spirit
Till your heart shrinks,
collapsing Into itself,
your sense of being shatters
And you kneel, trying to gather up
The shards of who you used to be
Squeezing ragged edges together,
cutting yourself on the sharp points
Of memory, insecurity and failure
Till the cracks finally stick
And you can pretend you are whole again
The lobby smells of cream, that’s the only way I can describe it. It’s a nice comforting scent that lingers in the entrance area – not too strong not too weak – the baby bear of smells. I stand in the room surveying the space around me carefully.
There is a long hallway of an entrance with a washroom on the left hand side. If I stand facing the entrance there are a series of closets on my right, a balcony on my left and an arguably excessively large wooden panel in front of me, presumably for mounting the mini home theatre system someone has decided I will undoubtedly own. Continue Reading »
Questions, emotions, thoughts
Stew in the recesses of my mind
Winds gathering speed
Bitter-tinged words rise from my heart
Up hoarse overworked vocal cords
Clawing their way to my tongue
I stop. I open my mouth. I swallow.
Air gushing, throat clamped in protest
My heart, a disgruntled woodpecker
Hammering away, willing shallow breaths
It cannot win. I open my mouth. I exhale.
The words that were never mine
That threatened to consume me
In dark places within and without.
They die at my lips, casualties of the storm.
Fantastic blog post I came across on art and censorship. Just wanted to share on here🙂
My Inverted Rainbow
My grandmother introduced me to the world of colors when I was in second grade. Every afternoon she sat by my side and together we colored the newspaper cartoons with color pastels. Soon after that, she read out my favorite folk tales and put me to sleep before I went out to play. Grandma tells me that as a kid, I loved painting the apple blue, the forest red and the sky green.
I distinctly remember having a big diamond shaped prism. I would sit by the window, let the sunlight pass through it, and jump in joy as the spectrum of colors inverted on the lavender wall in the living room. I felt thrilled on having inverted the rainbow. This was my rainbow – I had reversed the order, and there was no compulsion to set it “right”. Creative distortions fascinated me and the…
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It is our second night in Istanbul, and we have just finished surveying the Grand Bazaar. When we are done, Aditi and I sit on a bench to plan dinner. It is dark, and we are eager to get back to our side of Istanbul. We make a plan to go to the Golden Horn, but upon asking directions get diverse and often contradicting instructions.
It is a 30 minute walk, which we decide against, our feet tired and blistered from a day of sightseeing and walking around the Grand Bazaar. We get to the tram station, which is packed with people, and are not able to get on. It appears the King Streetcar phenomenon of waiting for six to pass before you’re able to get on, has also reached Istanbul.
We start the day slowly, though we are awake unusually early. Although the weariness of our travels makes us sluggish, the time difference means our body clocks are two and a half hours ahead, which means 8:30 am makes for a pretty leisurely start.
After we shower and get ready, we grab a pumpkin spice latte at the Starbucks around the corner. Yes, before you all judge, it’s not very Turkish, but a treat for us nonetheless as you don’t get this in Starbucks in Delhi.
Aditi and I booked window seats one in front of the other for our trip to Turkey, via Abu Dhabi. I am seated in 32K, and Aditi has the window seat behind me. However, when we get there, there is already a man sitting in her seat. He looks confused, as he doesn’t appear to know that not only is he in the wrong row, he is in the window seat instead of the aisle. He is meant to be in my row instead.
He moves over as I am struggling to settle and says “good morning” with great gusto. I am leery of over friendly people on flights. I have one of those faces that invite unsolicited conversation from people who have no social skills, self-awareness, or sense of personal boundaries.