Tag Archives: life

Art Journal- Post Graduation Blues

It’s okay to get lost every once in a while, sometimes getting lost is how we find ourselves.

-Robert Tew

I’m graduating from uni this month and after my final exams in April, admittedly I was a mixture of euphoria and unsettled nerves at the thought of one chapter, my bachelor’s, fruitfully coming to a close, but with no clue what the next one is much less what it will be like. I was conflicted about how to relax when all I wanted to do was move on to the next thing, feeling extremely impatient about what is to come. Recently re-reading A Series of Unfortunate Events, I came across the quote, “Waiting is one of life’s hardships.” and couldn’t agree fervently enough. But like all good things, they come to those who wait. I’ll have to learn that art in the meantime 😛

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p.s Adulting is hard. Seriously, what’s with all the questions and decisions you have to make? I just want to laze around cradling a nice tub of ice cream. And a few slices of pizza. Okay, many, many slices of pizza, jeez.

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W

Your toes are tapping with the thrum of of the undiscovered, alive to the tune of the unprecedented. Walk.

Streams split ahead much like thoughts in your mind, whispering and clear. Wade in.

The world is whipping by, as smoking rooms, dingy classes and cinema halls whirl into one another, like a dream, translucent and wispy. Wander.

Most of all, be fascinated with the mosaics before you, filtering sunlight into shards for you to catch. Wonder.

Ghosted

“The people you love become ghosts inside of you and like this you keep them alive.”

But if you’re the harbour of a thousand wisps of soul, who is going to keep them from leaking out of the holes in your heart? (And your rag-tag of a sweater on those cold winter mornings.)

No one.

Because you’re ghosted and closed. You’ll never let them out, those ghosts. And in very much the same way, with ferocity and love that could kill, you’ll never let anyone alive in.

Your love is for the dead.

Such a pity for the living.


 

p.s Check out Robert Montgomery’s installment, it’s wonderful and inspired this little bit.

3 days, 3 quotes Day 1

Hi so I was nominated for the 3 Days, 3 Quotes Challenge by Jaisal (whose blog you should definitely check out btw) a while ago  and I’ve been slow on the promise to complete the challenge. Finally, I have resolved to begin!  The challenge is to post three quotes consecutively for three days so here goes day 1!

Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.

– Claude Monet

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This quote is succinct and powerful, resonating with me as both an admirer of art and an artist herself.  Why complicate a beautiful thing? Just loving it is enough. I think that applies to life as well. I tend to introspect and overthink too much and sometimes it’s exhausting so this quote makes a lot of sense in those times.

Anyways, I’m a little lazy to nominate so anyone who reads this can be considered a nominee 🙂 Share your quotes with everyone, it’s fun!

Paradoxical Parallel Lines

I’d done a free style writing thing yesterday and posted whatever I wrote in ten minutes or so. However, I felt like it was heading somewhere so I continued the piece and came up with this:

Paradoxical Parallel Lines

The sound of the sea kissing the shore splayed in the air. My hands were chilled from the cold, hiding in my pockets as I made my way across the beach. It was a rare place, where the ocean and the frost met and mingled, but where no one else ever did. It had become my place of wandering, deserted and lonely but peaceful and if anything at all, I needed that.

Toes digging into the pastel tinged sand, I made my way towards a few rocks jutting out, cutting the sea with their sharp lines and crevices as if they were right angles dissecting a white page. Reminding me of the math homework laying piled up at home, I sighed. If x were a variable I could solve, I’d be having a much better time with it.

The numbers stood in neat little rows, separated by brackets and addition signs, which looked a language of its own. I just couldn’t speak it. Nor read. I was illiterate in an enforced tongue.

People, on the other hand, I was better with. They were complex and confusing which I liked because when you box things up neatly like a little question answer package in arithmetic, things seem too compartmentalised and rigid. People aren’t meant for that. We’re paradoxes, both logical and emotional; contradicting ourselves so many times we’ve all become knots in the ceaseless string of life.

These were the thoughts that kept me occupied, so much so that my feet weren’t aware that they’d tripped over something until I hit the ground with a dull thud.

“Ouch.” I muttered, elbows propping me up to take a look at what I’d fallen over.

It was a boy. He was dressed oddly, as if from a different time, a different era. Kneeling beside this stranger, I found him knotted up in strands of fishers net and seaweed. Slowly, I untangled it all, having to cut the net with a sharp stone lying nearby. Yet, on looking over to his right, it seemed I didn’t need the stone at all.

There lying a few finger lengths from his hand, was a sword in its sheath. Frowning, I picked it up, unsheathing an inch but the minute I pulled it out, it was as if gravity had congregated to keep it down, hurting my hand.

“Don’t. It’s not for humans.”

Alarmed, I spun around to see that the boy was conscious. Lowering the sword I asked, “What do you mean it’s not for humans?”

“You can’t unsheathe it.” He said, trying to get up but faltered, his knees buckling under his weight. I hesitated about helping him. He seemed so odd that for once, I wished more people were around.

“And you can?”

“Yes.” He grunted, finally getting on his feet.

I frowned. “So…you’re not human?”

Bending down to retrieve the sword, he looked up at me sharply as if it were an insult. “No.”

With that he walked away, resolute and stubborn. Yet, sure. As if he’d come for a purpose.

In that moment, math had seemed more understandable than he.

I never saw him again, though I hadn’t really looked. I just knew that the beach was back to being mine once more, strolling around weeks later. It was better this way but I couldn’t help but be curious. I began to think of the time my teacher had drawn two long chalk lines on the blackboard saying, “These are parallel lines. And no matter how far you extend them, stretch them out to infinity, they will not meet.”

Maybe math is wrong. Maybe sometimes they do.

Free Style Writing: Knots

So I was nominated for some free style writing by https://inquisitivemindandstubbornheart.wordpress.com and it was just what I needed to kick writers block in the behind. I hadn’t written in a while and this was a fun way to get back at it. Here’s what my stream of consciousness spun:

Knots

The sound of the sea kissing the shore splayed in the air. My hands were chilled from the cold, hiding in my pockets as I made my way across the beach. It was a rare place, where the ocean and the cold met and mingled, but where no one else ever did. It had become my place of wandering, deserted and lonely but peaceful and if anything at all, I needed that.

Toes digging into the pastel tinged sand, I made my way towards a few rocks jutting out, cutting the sea with their sharp lines and crevices as if they were right angles dissecting a white page. Reminding me of the math homework laying piled up at home, I sighed. If x were a variable I could solve, I’d be having a much better time with it.

The numbers stood in neat little rows, separated by brackets and addition signs, which looked a language of its own. I just couldn’t speak it. Nor read. I was illiterate in an enforced tongue.

People, on the other hand, I was better with. They were complex and confusing which I liked because when you box things up neatly like a little question answer package in arithmetic, things seem too compartmentalised and rigid. People aren’t meant for that. We’re paradoxes, both logical and emotional; contradicting ourselves so many times we’ve all become knots in the ceaseless string of life.

Time: 9 minutes

Words: 236

RULES

1) Open an MS Word document (or any other editor)
2) Set a stop watch or your mobile of 5-10 minutes.
3) Your topic is at the foot of this post, DO NOT SCROLL DOWN TO SEE IT UNTIL YOU ARE READY WITH A TIMER.
4) Fill the word document with as much words as you want. Once you began writing do not stop.
5) Do not cheat by going back and correcting spellings and grammar with spell check (it is only meant for you reflect on your control on sensible thought flow)
6) You may or may not pay attention to punctuation and capitals.
7) At the end of your post write down the number of words
8) Do not forget to copy paste the entire passage on your blog post with a new topic.

Nominees:

https://loveexpressing.wordpress.com/

https://asperganoid.wordpress.com/

Your topic is: Screen

I listened

My schizophrenic mother spun tales out of her hallucinations as if they were bedtime stories.

I listened.

The machine monitoring my fathers cracked heart beeped in the corner of his hospital room like a misguided melody.

I listened.

My friend broke her teeth on vodka bottles and breathed marijuana.

I listened.

My classmate’s mother called and cried that her daughter swallowed forty pills for a midnight snack.

I listened.

Then I cried into the night and it hushed the wails with a soft, clean pillow.

No one listened.

In Hospital

I heard a schizophrenic
Patient say inner beauty
Is better than putting on
A plastered face

That a little electricity
In the right place
Can make a difference
Even if only a microvolt

Piles of cases, papers
Stitched into a history
Peppered with mild doses
Of diazepam and loxapine

In the corner sits
A standby defibrillator
The switch with a red light
But can precaution
save the fated?

I do not know.

But I do hope.


So I started interning at a neuro-psychiatric hospital and this was inspired from the happenings inside.

 

An Open Letter to my Dad

Hi,

24th December 2005 to 24th December 2014.

9 whole years and counting.

It’s been a long time, dad. (The only way I can use that word anymore is by writing it because I certainly can’t say it to anyone else.)

I thought you’d be curious about what’s been going down here. We’ve got phones with as many megapixels as your old camera that you used to take family photos and preserve memories with. In general, 3D movies have gotten better. You missed Inception and Interstellar and I think you would have liked the fourth Pirates of the Caribbean movie just as much as the first. My Play Station 2 has remained boxed up for years, not so much fun to play without you in the living room. Things are not the same.

After you died, Molly wouldn’t come out of her cage for months, making me realize that birds grieve just as much as their human counterparts. Poor thing didn’t know what happened and now I am twenty years old, questioning religion, resenting my luck and catapulting into a quarter-life crisis, feeling like maybe I am the one who does not know what happened. Molly must have forgotten while I continually remember.

I seek comfort in imagining the afterlife. Yours. If Albus Dumbledore was indeed right, that to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure, I am sure yours is just that, perhaps more.

Now tell me…

what am I missing?

Love,

An ever grieving daughter