MORE PICTURES

http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii79/imaginary256/canada/

More pictures have been added for your viewing (dis)pleasure.

Title-less once more

There are footsteps outside my door

a knocking

somewhere far off

a glass drops, shatters

into precisely

seventy-three

little pieces

of which

one bounces,

ricochets,

and finds home

in the vitreous humor

of my abuser’s eye

Untitled

She has

blackhole eyes

that devour light

with all the hunger of a chained wolf

and lips petrified

in a smile as empty

as her shell

and sometimes when the moon is full

and winds howl

you can hear

the drip-drop of rain

echoing inside her

Some stories

never make it to the ending

I am a writer. I do not do pastels. I do not do breathtaking charcoal drawings. I do not do acrylics or water colours or anything vaguely as time consuming. I do not do portfolios full of mediocre artwork that I pretend to love and hold up to the world with proud arms. I simply DO NOT do it.

I am a writer. Not a graphic designer. Not one of those artsy people. Not ANYTHING but a writer. I write. Or atleast..I used to. Not long back, I used to write.

I used to write.

I used to be a writer.

And now? Now I just read. I am a reader. How boring does that sound? A reader.

Art has deprived me of my writery-ness. It has murdered it. I am dead.

I imagine myself, sometimes, in France of the 1890’s. Paris, to be exact. In some dark, dirty street, returning from some glitzy, glamorous show. Not a viewer, mind you, but a performer. I dont know what this has to do with writing. Except maybe that if I were the me of then, I would not be expected to be anything more than simply a performer. I would be exected to be a “failure”, to be of the “lower class”, to be uneducated, intelligent perhaps but not well-read or rounded. I would not be expected to have aspirations and that would be it. That would be the truest form of freedom. Success (in the conventional sense of the word) would be a choice, not a compulsion.

But as it is, I must return to my pastels, charcoal, ink, paintbrushes and whatnot so that I may “succeed”.

Medicine would have been easier, I’m sure. At least I wouldnt have to pretend to enjoy it.

Bits of the Day #I dont give a fuck

Its been a while. With all the must-do’s and have-to-do’s. God. It feels like my head might explode. I have caught a slight sore throat from Sophie..who is sick. Not to the extent of worrying the crap out of everyone…but we worry nonetheless.

I dont really know what to write in this post aside from uni shit. I am, quite frankly, tired of it and was hoping to do something different for this post. Like actually WRITE something. Creativity is dead.

As it is 5:30 am and I still have sketches to make, I shall postpone the heavy writing to when Dr. Frankenstien can manage to bring creativity back to life without the process reversing.

*signs off in uber original, fun way*

Yeah, that should suffice.

Pictures!

http://s261.photobucket.com/albums/ii79/imaginary256/canada/

More to follow.

Pictars

 

More pictures later on

Lyric Snippets of the Day

“Hey Jupiter
Nothings been the same
So are you gay?
Are you blue?
Thought we both could use a friend to run to”

~ Hey Jupiter, Tori Amos

“Once I wanted to be the greatest
No wind or waterfall could stop me
And then came the rush of the flood
Stars at night turned you to dust
…
Lower me down
Pin me in
Secure the grounds
For the later parade”

~ The Greatest, Cat Power

“Here in this hole that we have fixed
we get futher and further and further
from what we must do
I saw you asleep beside a hole
your skull inside that hole
your eyes blackened by the sound and the thought of god
where should I hang my head?
where would you like for me to hang my head?”

~ In This Hole, Cat Power

“I’m not sure who’s fooling who here
as I’m watching your decay
we both know you could deflate
a 7 hurricane
you could have spared her – oh but no
messiahs need people dying in their name
you say “i ordered you a pancake”
you say “i ordered you a pancake”

~ Pancake, Tori Amos

Random Thought

its fucking freezing and the only reason I’m on the computer is because its keeping my lap warm.

I miss my bed.

Ramblings From Nowhere

Its snowing out. Blizzard. And my fingers are freezing. For some reason, the heating wont work properly in here, this room. Its cold. But I’ve got it all to myself. With a book and my mp3 players charging. The small pleasures of life, eh?

So this is a country I’m supposed to move to within an year. Less than, actually. Within a few months. June. To be specific. Six months. It reminds me of Florida and London at the same time. The outskirts and the inner city. It is beautiful. The snow, the dormant trees amidst evergreens and the almost freezing lakes. And the people. We cant possibly forget the people. Courtesy has lost its meaning where I am. Its different here.

But once again I’ve conned myself into believing that I will change in this place.

Settling down is an idea that appeals less to mee each day. A fantasy of mine is to drift around like a hobo – being tere but not really there. Having been everywhere while remaining in the same place. The solitary place within myself that is home. My true home.

But someone called my “I dont care” bullshit the other day, after I claimed I dont want to make a difference in the world and my definition of success differs from that of others. I do care. But who ever heard of hobos making a difference? And do I have to make a difference if I care?

There is one thing I realised during the “discussion”. I prefer to “make a difference” from a distance. I prefer to do everything from a distance. I suppose that conveniently fits me into a cliche. But so far I have found no reason to reduce distance. From a distance I can appreciatate the pattern fine snow makes in the wind. Up-close, I’m far too deep in.

What I dont understand is why this is a problem.

I had this weird dream about a famous guy and two dictors trying to save him. H ad a heart condition. I knew he was dying, he knew he was dying and the doctors knew he was dying. And the only chance to let him live was to cross the distance. He refused to speak, The doctors gave up and he died.

It was a dream though.

I had another where I was swimming toward some people. Family. Our boat had capsized and they had reached shore before I had. And mom shouts to me from the distance “watch out! Those arent dolphins in the water! They’re sharks!” And I cut my foot on some sharp coral underwater.

I woke up. That too was a dream.

There was one more in which I walk down twisting hallways in a castle that looks something of a school I’ve been to and something of a house I remember. In each room plays a memory. I know, in the dream, that it is a memory. I am looking for something frantically in one of those rooms. I do not find it.

I forgot where I was going with all the dreams – a collection of fear charms for my bracelet. I’ve recently taken to wearing wire bracelets with a little tinkling bell on each. A bell that announces my presence in its soft tink-tink. I wear them so I may find my way back home if I wonder away too far.

IMPORTANT NOTICE! (not really)

I’m alive…kinda..busy.

Will disappear for about ten days from now. Trip to Canada. Will update when I’m less brain dead.

Love and hugs.