Too long was I craving light, craving oxygen, craving an antidote to this pain
Craving clarity to my thoughts, honest answers to my questions
I was stuck in an eclipse, an epoch where I couldn't move, couldn't think,
Until you came to me, showed me the light in my shadows,
The colours in my darkness,
And now, time stands still.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Crayons Of Hope
I want to fill her soul with colour
Duck yellow, sky blue, blood red
I want to paint her eyes with laughter and happiness
Hand her joy on a golden plate
I want to gift her smiles that are not forged
Mother of pearls, summer tulips, hard diamond
I want her to dream of flowers and chocolates
Not stabbed by pangs of guilt
I want to shade her cheekbones with rosy red
Not this cold hood of bone she wears
I want to sprinkle her heart with sunshine
Dust of topaz, dazzle of citrine, tiger's eye
I want to bare her a soul that is not black
One of unicorns, rainbows and soft teardrops
I want to drizzle it with honey
Smooth, golden, an antidote to pain
I want to infuse her mind with perfumes of Eden
Delicate lily, green grass, gusts of virginal air
I want to season her tongue with flavours of Paradise
Rain drops, snow drops, the taste of freedom
I want to disperse seeds of rapture amongst the reeds of her mind
Allow them to take root and flourish
I want to tinge it with pale pink
Draw clouds with silver linings
Yet I am locked in a fortress of darkness
An army of shadows coming for me
You deserve better, not this
Wringing of hands, not this
Hollow shell of a girl, not this
Dark ceiling without a star.
Duck yellow, sky blue, blood red
I want to paint her eyes with laughter and happiness
Hand her joy on a golden plate
I want to gift her smiles that are not forged
Mother of pearls, summer tulips, hard diamond
I want her to dream of flowers and chocolates
Not stabbed by pangs of guilt
I want to shade her cheekbones with rosy red
Not this cold hood of bone she wears
I want to sprinkle her heart with sunshine
Dust of topaz, dazzle of citrine, tiger's eye
I want to bare her a soul that is not black
One of unicorns, rainbows and soft teardrops
I want to drizzle it with honey
Smooth, golden, an antidote to pain
I want to infuse her mind with perfumes of Eden
Delicate lily, green grass, gusts of virginal air
I want to season her tongue with flavours of Paradise
Rain drops, snow drops, the taste of freedom
I want to disperse seeds of rapture amongst the reeds of her mind
Allow them to take root and flourish
I want to tinge it with pale pink
Draw clouds with silver linings
Yet I am locked in a fortress of darkness
An army of shadows coming for me
You deserve better, not this
Wringing of hands, not this
Hollow shell of a girl, not this
Dark ceiling without a star.
They
Insatiate, incessant, they build.
They build with dexterous diligence
They create with practiced precision
They pollute with negligent nonchalance.
Towering blocks of grey have replaced the emerald forest
A concrete jungle has supplanted the golden strand
Even the mighty cerulean expanse seems to have surrendered, drawing back in forfeit.
Ignorant, cruel, they asphyxiate the world,
Wounding Mother Nature almost beyond repair.
Conscious, sentient, they burn a hole in the sky,
Scarring it so deep it bleeds.
The ice kingdoms melt in protest
And so the mighty oceans ascend in anger.
God’s lament is drowned in the clamour of our betrayal
Almost too late to retain
What little remains.
They build with dexterous diligence
They create with practiced precision
They pollute with negligent nonchalance.
Towering blocks of grey have replaced the emerald forest
A concrete jungle has supplanted the golden strand
Even the mighty cerulean expanse seems to have surrendered, drawing back in forfeit.
Ignorant, cruel, they asphyxiate the world,
Wounding Mother Nature almost beyond repair.
Conscious, sentient, they burn a hole in the sky,
Scarring it so deep it bleeds.
The ice kingdoms melt in protest
And so the mighty oceans ascend in anger.
God’s lament is drowned in the clamour of our betrayal
Almost too late to retain
What little remains.
Sports-Loathe It. Hate It. Can't Stand It.
Sports and I don’t go together. It’s like mixing custard and soda. I’m custard; indolent, lethargic and I curdle when put in the sun too long. Sports is soda; fizzy, annoying, and it gives you gas.
A human automatically hates something they are not good at no matter how much they try, and when it comes to physical exertion I have tried and failed.
There are several reasons to my vehement hatred of all things physical. The first reason is that I am not good at it. I am the kind of girl that you find in the library reading a good book or sitting down quietly listening to music, rather than sweating it out in the playground with my peers. My hand-eye coordination is zero.
The second reason is that my P.E teacher has a severe vendetta against me, and for some bizarre reason, finds pleasure in doling out physical tasks to me alone, specially designed to bring me to near death with exhaustion and stop my heart beating.
The third reason is that apart from being healthy, I find exercise pointless. My biology teacher would scream in horror, as would, I’m sure, other healthy lifestyle specialists, but that is a fact. I do not see the need in being forced to run two kilometres in under six minutes because unless I become a convict or engage in a profession that requires a lot of running, which are usually careers that are not entirely legal, I do not under any circumstances need to spend eighty minutes each week being timed while I am forced to run two thousand meters.
I am inevitably mercilessly teased by my peers because of my lack of fitness, and when it is time for the heats, the short kid with asthma and sinus problem sniggers as he knows even he can beat me at the hundred meter sprint. I don’t sprint. I amble. I run a little bit faster than a 1959 Chevy truck with a puncture, and I know an old Chevy isn’t a particularly speedy vehicle, let alone a punctured one.
I had lessons on how to run when I was in year 4. I know for a fact that that isn’t normal. Normal human beings know how to run without any extra help because it comes naturally, right after walking, but I guess that particular strand of chromosome overlooked me. And the fact that I run like “I’m walking fast” as my P.E teacher puts it, doesn’t help at all. But the verity that all the delightful people in my class remember my year 4 P.E teacher’s valiant attempts to get me to run properly, and remind me without fail at every possible opportunity they get, might also have something to do with why I hate doing sport so much.
I’m also always the last to get picked for teams. I don’t necessarily mind as I’m pretty much used to it after ten years of it, but it does gnaw at the old ‘self confidence’ a tad.
To make things worse, the megalomaniac-torturous-love deprived heads of the athletic department of the school have also found a way to compile a list of my least favourite activities all in one calendar year. The fact that the activities that top my “Sports never ever to do even if my life depends on it” list, such as swimming, football, and the dreaded athletics, does not, obviously, help me lessen my loathing of exercise in any way either.
But I am open-minded about it. I appreciate that those who love sports love it because it makes them happy and keeps them fit. I am not oblivious to the fact it sends endorphins raging through your body, but I prefer to send endorphins raging through my body through chocolate. Many others do it because there it is their form of entertainment and it is something they love to do. Football for example, is one of the most common past times, and invokes such passion around the world. Perhaps I’d be more passionate about football if it wasn’t mandatory for me to wear a silly orange jersey and run around a pitch subject to jeering once a week for an entire term of my academic year.
I am an extremely lazy person, but laziness is nothing more than resting before you get tired. Rather than hockey or athletics, I am the yoga-doing, synchronized-swimming, indoor rock-climbing type of girl. Moreover, sport’s purpose in this day and age has almost been completely forgotten. Most of my friends train for football or athletics because it keeps them slim, not because they love the sheer exhilaration that comes with it.
If I could run, or was the least bit physically fit in any way, I’d love sport. Mainly because I would be able to do it well, and the fact that I am a perfectionist is one of my flaws. Anything that I know I cannot do well no matter how hard I try is wasted time and effort for me as I know I could be using that time to improve something I know I am already good at. Physical fitness is just not in my genes. There isn’t a single person in my family who was a good athlete, unless the exercise of the brain counts. My uncle was a chess champion after all, and my dad is a sports critic (but that doesn’t really count because that just involves sitting in front of the television and yelling rude things at the screen which even I can do.)
I may appear apathetic, but I do know what I am missing because my body decided not to produce the DNA necessary for development in terms of physical fitness.
Sport isn’t the right thing for this 1959 Chevy truck, but things can change.
Or not.
A human automatically hates something they are not good at no matter how much they try, and when it comes to physical exertion I have tried and failed.
There are several reasons to my vehement hatred of all things physical. The first reason is that I am not good at it. I am the kind of girl that you find in the library reading a good book or sitting down quietly listening to music, rather than sweating it out in the playground with my peers. My hand-eye coordination is zero.
The second reason is that my P.E teacher has a severe vendetta against me, and for some bizarre reason, finds pleasure in doling out physical tasks to me alone, specially designed to bring me to near death with exhaustion and stop my heart beating.
The third reason is that apart from being healthy, I find exercise pointless. My biology teacher would scream in horror, as would, I’m sure, other healthy lifestyle specialists, but that is a fact. I do not see the need in being forced to run two kilometres in under six minutes because unless I become a convict or engage in a profession that requires a lot of running, which are usually careers that are not entirely legal, I do not under any circumstances need to spend eighty minutes each week being timed while I am forced to run two thousand meters.
I am inevitably mercilessly teased by my peers because of my lack of fitness, and when it is time for the heats, the short kid with asthma and sinus problem sniggers as he knows even he can beat me at the hundred meter sprint. I don’t sprint. I amble. I run a little bit faster than a 1959 Chevy truck with a puncture, and I know an old Chevy isn’t a particularly speedy vehicle, let alone a punctured one.
I had lessons on how to run when I was in year 4. I know for a fact that that isn’t normal. Normal human beings know how to run without any extra help because it comes naturally, right after walking, but I guess that particular strand of chromosome overlooked me. And the fact that I run like “I’m walking fast” as my P.E teacher puts it, doesn’t help at all. But the verity that all the delightful people in my class remember my year 4 P.E teacher’s valiant attempts to get me to run properly, and remind me without fail at every possible opportunity they get, might also have something to do with why I hate doing sport so much.
I’m also always the last to get picked for teams. I don’t necessarily mind as I’m pretty much used to it after ten years of it, but it does gnaw at the old ‘self confidence’ a tad.
To make things worse, the megalomaniac-torturous-love deprived heads of the athletic department of the school have also found a way to compile a list of my least favourite activities all in one calendar year. The fact that the activities that top my “Sports never ever to do even if my life depends on it” list, such as swimming, football, and the dreaded athletics, does not, obviously, help me lessen my loathing of exercise in any way either.
But I am open-minded about it. I appreciate that those who love sports love it because it makes them happy and keeps them fit. I am not oblivious to the fact it sends endorphins raging through your body, but I prefer to send endorphins raging through my body through chocolate. Many others do it because there it is their form of entertainment and it is something they love to do. Football for example, is one of the most common past times, and invokes such passion around the world. Perhaps I’d be more passionate about football if it wasn’t mandatory for me to wear a silly orange jersey and run around a pitch subject to jeering once a week for an entire term of my academic year.
I am an extremely lazy person, but laziness is nothing more than resting before you get tired. Rather than hockey or athletics, I am the yoga-doing, synchronized-swimming, indoor rock-climbing type of girl. Moreover, sport’s purpose in this day and age has almost been completely forgotten. Most of my friends train for football or athletics because it keeps them slim, not because they love the sheer exhilaration that comes with it.
If I could run, or was the least bit physically fit in any way, I’d love sport. Mainly because I would be able to do it well, and the fact that I am a perfectionist is one of my flaws. Anything that I know I cannot do well no matter how hard I try is wasted time and effort for me as I know I could be using that time to improve something I know I am already good at. Physical fitness is just not in my genes. There isn’t a single person in my family who was a good athlete, unless the exercise of the brain counts. My uncle was a chess champion after all, and my dad is a sports critic (but that doesn’t really count because that just involves sitting in front of the television and yelling rude things at the screen which even I can do.)
I may appear apathetic, but I do know what I am missing because my body decided not to produce the DNA necessary for development in terms of physical fitness.
Sport isn’t the right thing for this 1959 Chevy truck, but things can change.
Or not.
Teenagers & Troubling Thoughts on Twilight
Once kids are already in the cruel grips of adolescence, one would think Twilight can’t make things much worse, but you would be sadly mistaken. For future reference, large numbers of people with abnormal levels of hormones being pumped around the body do not go well with large numbers of books on forbidden romance. I was alarmed to find that the line between reality and fiction has become increasingly blurred amongst my peers.
I mean I’m just saying, it may lead girls to believe there is such a thing as a gorgeous boy who will hang on to your every word and use his super-speed to open your car door for you, a boy who will carry you up a tree on his back so you can enjoy the view, and a boy who will sit and play pretty tunes on the piano while you hang on his shoulder, without hoping for sex in return. We would all love to believe in something so beautiful but alas girls, the ‘Perfect Boyfriend’ is just as legendary as the vampire or werewolf. And even though Robert Pattinson may be a real person, not to shatter your dreams or anything, but he’s not really Edward Cullen in real life!
Yes, real life may be a foreign concept to many, where we can’t turn into lycanthropes and hurl ourselves of cliff faces or leap from tree to tree in a superhuman blur – if we get cut we may actually need stitches – our healing capabilities aren’t quite as developed as those of fictitious characters. It may lead boys to believe that such things as eight-packs exist, that a skin tone paler than paper is an attractive quality and adding a copy of Twilight in your bag will get you girls. Again, doesn’t really work so flawlessly in reality. Don’t be fooled.
I mean I’m just saying, it may lead girls to believe there is such a thing as a gorgeous boy who will hang on to your every word and use his super-speed to open your car door for you, a boy who will carry you up a tree on his back so you can enjoy the view, and a boy who will sit and play pretty tunes on the piano while you hang on his shoulder, without hoping for sex in return. We would all love to believe in something so beautiful but alas girls, the ‘Perfect Boyfriend’ is just as legendary as the vampire or werewolf. And even though Robert Pattinson may be a real person, not to shatter your dreams or anything, but he’s not really Edward Cullen in real life!
Yes, real life may be a foreign concept to many, where we can’t turn into lycanthropes and hurl ourselves of cliff faces or leap from tree to tree in a superhuman blur – if we get cut we may actually need stitches – our healing capabilities aren’t quite as developed as those of fictitious characters. It may lead boys to believe that such things as eight-packs exist, that a skin tone paler than paper is an attractive quality and adding a copy of Twilight in your bag will get you girls. Again, doesn’t really work so flawlessly in reality. Don’t be fooled.
"The Case Of The Laughing Paper"
There's a feeling you get when you’re pissed off, like really really pissed off, and you feel like taking that anger out on something. Something other than the wall (apart from the fact it bloody hurts when you bang your hand against it, it’s a one-sided conversation if you decide to divulge your innermost contemplations) and something other than breaking things (there is the minor detail you will have to clean it up once you're done "expressing" your frustration) so-flash-you suddenly get inspiration to write and take that inner fury or irritation out on dead paper. There you are, with that blank sheet infront of you, either behind an LCD screen or on your lap, and then it’s the hardest thing in the world to muster up that courage to write that first word.
Is it just me or does it seem to mock you? Do you get that feeling where is seems like the paper is laughing at you? The lines on the writing pad merge together to form a scrunched up little face trying not to laugh at the irony that has befallen you. There you are, pen in hand, rage fresh in your mind, and the intent to put it down on paper, but no words seem to flow out. Is this writer's block? I hereby christen it- The case of the laughing paper.
Is it just me or does it seem to mock you? Do you get that feeling where is seems like the paper is laughing at you? The lines on the writing pad merge together to form a scrunched up little face trying not to laugh at the irony that has befallen you. There you are, pen in hand, rage fresh in your mind, and the intent to put it down on paper, but no words seem to flow out. Is this writer's block? I hereby christen it- The case of the laughing paper.
A shocking revelation
As I watched her sob infront of me as she wondered outloud what she had done to "deserve this" I made a profound discovery. The human mind makes a seemingly simple issue ten times worse. When we're upset, about 90% of that sadness is caused by our natural tendency to wallow in self-pity and hyperbole our situation. It just cannot be helped. The word which seems to repeat itself in my head when I'm in tears is me, or variations of that word such as I and mine. How could this happen to me? What have I done to deserve this? And as these thoughts cross our mind, they elicit our tear ducts to switch on in full force, and lo and behold a fresh stream of the waterworks flows out. The truth is, you probably did do something to deserve this-but if you believe in karma, the repurcussions you are facing now could be of an act performed in a past life. If you don't believe in karma, then keep in mind this very true and wise quote-"shit happens." Nobody's life is perfect, nobody is a 100% content.. I'm betting even the Dalai Lama who claims to have devoted his life's purpose to Buddha has a little part of him which is thinking "Is there more." Just because it's human nature to never be satisfied, and sadly, most of us are unable to appreciate what we have until it's gone. I find that most of the time, things aren't as bad as they seem-yes okay, there are those few exceptions where things really are as crappy as they seem, but I genuinely believe there is always something you can do about it. Humans are not helpless. There are those of us who like to use that word to describe themselves and then wallow in self-pity about it, but if they bothered to get off their ass and do something about it, I'm pretty sure the situation's gravity can be alleviated.
When we're upset, maybe if we take the time to assess the situation in a logical manner, there'll be a way to solve it. I'm guessing 75% of the tears you've cried is caused by your brain's natural tendency to embellish for dramatic effect. (Don't blame it. It's instinct.)
When we're upset, maybe if we take the time to assess the situation in a logical manner, there'll be a way to solve it. I'm guessing 75% of the tears you've cried is caused by your brain's natural tendency to embellish for dramatic effect. (Don't blame it. It's instinct.)
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