tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8546610316119035222024-02-08T06:05:35.525-08:00BeingSodaThe blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-9707077684727683422018-02-01T18:33:00.002-08:002018-02-01T18:33:43.175-08:00Children's ward, 5th floor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've started at a rotation on a Child Psychiatry in-patient unit <div>
Do you know what it feels like when everything you've ever wanted is in front of you, but you have no idea how to get it? In a different country than the one I've known all my life, I don't even know how to send a fax, let alone how to present a case to a doctor. It doesn't help that I have a phobia of authority figures.</div>
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I love so many things about being here. The beauty of this place, even though it is so cold all the time. I love the children I work with and sometimes I want to hug some of them and ruffle their hair, but that would not be appropriate; they have to learn ways to cope with their emotions without someone else doing it for them.</div>
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Some of them I don't understand why they do what they do; some I don't understand how to reach and they remind of painful times in my life.</div>
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I will be there tomorrow though, and everyday, trying something new everyday, trying my best to figure this out because no one that small should have to struggle with things that are so terrible within themselves alone and think that there is no hope left in the world.</div>
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With them, I am learning things about myself and the people around me that I grew up with and am still around. I don't understand fully but fleeting glimpses are what I am allowed.</div>
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My brain feels like a sieve with so many things to remember and I feel like I am filtering out the important stuff trying to remember the details.</div>
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I sound so drab and dreary even to myself. I haven't been doing good things for myself or remembering them.</div>
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I shall try to remember them soon.</div>
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I was kind. I tried my best to help even when I had no idea how to. I played a game with one of kids. I smile at them and ask them how they are doing. I like Amy (name changed) and I see so much of myself in her; its easy to forget that she hears voices. I got her to talk to me and smile. And its a lovely smile and with so much energy but it fades so quickly its strange.</div>
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So much of what she is are things I aspire for, including the ability to learn new things quickly.</div>
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I'm learning the newest music from the children, what bands are popular now. What they do to pass time. I find it hard to identify with the gaming part of it; I grew up with no gaming access and they have the Wii and Playstation and I have no idea what those things are.</div>
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One of them has a very pretty blue blanket with penguins and a unicorn sweater. They color with markers that smell nice, like nachos and cheese and cinnamon and strawberry. They have stickers to put on chartpaper and magazines to cut out of. </div>
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I miss those bits about my childhood. I miss compulsory art lessons and library time. I miss the corridor with Play Doh in the corner. I love the smell of Play Doh. I had a game with monkeys in it and a fake computer I could fake type on. We had a tiny library but we were small and there were so many books; it was a blissful hour-or was it half ? I miss not having to worry about grown up things. I was pretty unhappy though or so I remember myself describing my childhood as. Brief moments of joy interspersed in the middle of feelings of mostly sad, out of place in school and at home scared and angry and closed.</div>
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I caught myself regressing. I wanted so badly to be let in the room with the books and re read the books I loved and still loved. Harold and the Purple Crayon, Dr Seuss and heaven knows what else.</div>
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Now I don't have the time for bookshops and my family was so against me reading and playing the piano and other pursuits that were not science or earned money or would make me a good wife I just lost sight of my creativity and I never got it back. I can't draw or write stories from imagination or even compose. I have no creative flair left in me. I suppose the only way to get it back is to exercise it.</div>
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I'm going to practise writing, for one.</div>
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And I bought myself felt tip markers and a notebook to draw in. I'm looking forward to that over the weekend!</div>
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Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-4578691035247829902013-10-10T21:23:00.001-07:002013-10-10T21:23:13.565-07:00Musings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The reading of Tagore fills me with hope, paradoxically perhaps, that bleak hope which he writes of, that we cling to despite logic and reason.<br />
It is not just hope; but also a remembering, a remembrance of beauty unsullied by human folly.<br />
Tagore is one of the few Indian writers I love, and read over and over.<br />
The newer stories, the ones that win prizes, I cannot appreciate, they are too unrelentingly dark.<br />
I recently read The God of Small Things, and it say it plunged me into a blue funk would be an understatement. The next day I could not rise from the bed.<br />
In Roy's work( Arundhati Roy), nature is ever present, painstakingly outlined, heart breakingly beautiful, but ever subordinate. It is a mere backdrop, so to speak, a foil for the humans that fall in love and are torn apart. Roy's characters are black and white to me, foolish, like moths that flutter around the flame and are singed for their foolishness.<br />
Tagore works are slightly more optimistic about the nature of humanity, and his works are never devoid of a sense of beauty and respect for Nature herself, and her stunning glory. His stories are not all happy endings; but they are not bleak either. Childish though it may seem, his poetry renews that faith in me that was once so assured, so gentle and calm. A child's faith is one of the strongest there is.<br />
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Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-13445232623475875942013-03-28T10:16:00.003-07:002013-10-10T20:51:26.305-07:00Seeing and learning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm at that point in my life where you gotta learn to change, to adapt, cause you can see with your own eyes what your habits, your old traits are doing to your life. It's funny how you expect change from other people, but when it comes to changing the littlest thing about yourself, the Stages; denial, depression, anger and finally acceptance, kick in.<br />
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You make up every reason you can think of, to justify that one thing. </div>
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"It's part of who I am!"</div>
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"It was justified under the circumstances"</div>
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"It's a much better way of coping than what she does!"</div>
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Blah blah blah.</div>
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Change is inevitable. Even without me trying, I've changed over the years. The way you perceive things changes, the way you react to stimuli changes; in your head, the principle is intact. But your emotions to it change. And the strongest sorts of belief run on emotion.</div>
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Some of the pieces I wrote less than a year back, which I was so proud of, now seem melodramatic; they always, were, I just never saw it. Some of the things I said, thought and did, surprise me now. In a way, I'm glad, to know that I managed to change my perspective.</div>
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I was in a hurry to change, once. It didn't seem to happen fast enough. I did things that are embarrassing to remember now. Some memories are funny, now. Most are still mortifying. Some have faded over time and lost their sting.</div>
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I was reading posts on my school's confession page, and I realize how hard it is to let some memories go. I wonder if the people who act like they've changed, really have. All I remember school by is a vague fondness, some pretty trees, memories that have faded over time. Children are cruel. 'Tis a fact of life. I experienced that first hand. I saw them change with age, most for the better. Childhood and children aren't always innocent happy and carefree. Learning what the real world is like, and what it requires of you, was a check that I felt a lot of them needed. Some of them genuinely changed; some learned to mask themselves beneath a veneer of polite socializing and attempts to act like everyone's friend.</div>
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I got a lot from leaving school, but I learnt a lot from being in it as well. I learnt what it's like being surrounded by people who are all, mostly above average intelligence. I see that stress might get you through a school exam, but in the long run, it does more harm than good. I see that it's better to talk through situations, and walking away isn't always a good thing. I see that it's better to take decisions because dawdling over them can do more harm. I see that it's not always a good thing to not vent.<br />
I see, and now I must learn.</div>
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Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-35744766129184877202013-03-04T09:58:00.001-08:002013-03-04T09:58:27.677-08:00Jogs and food.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello there. Happy new year.<br />
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This is about new year's resolutions.</div>
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These are resolutions that I didn't intend to make, but my subconscious subjected to years of festive propaganda, went ahead and made some anyway.</div>
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Happily I think they are in the hopes of being implemented. Sigh.</div>
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I lost a lot of weight in 2011, rather drastically. Not to mention unintentionally; I was so caught up the whirlwind of my life that discovering an unexpected granola bar in my bag was akin to manna from heaven, no joke. I spent half that year in a half starved state. </div>
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So when I shifted back home last year and suddenly had a well stocked kitchen at my disposal and didn't have to travel as much, or stress as much, I gained pounds at an alarming rate. The numerals of my weight inverted themselves, and I am now the possessor of the body of a typical Greek female sculpture. While that sounds wonderfully Attic and voluptuous, I find that I admire the flat abdomen of Mila Kunis more than the love handles of Aphrodite. So, in consequence I decided to lose weight.</div>
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Now, I love food. Period. It is my antidepressant when I'm down and out, my friend in need, the only thing I can look forward to in a day of weary hospital posting, lectures, practicals and trains. </div>
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So,I can't give up food, no Sir, I've been deprived of it for way too long to regard it disinterestedly.</div>
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Hence follows the only possible conclusion; exercise.</div>
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I made a pact with myself to make myself take some sort of exercise till I build up a sweat everyday, and the trudging to and from and in college I do is not counted.</div>
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Currently, I've taken to jogging just a little, everyday. One round of the track next to my place and and two rounds of brisk walking. I'll build it up slowly. Don't want to wake up with cramps in my thighs from over exerting.</div>
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That's all for today, I'm tired,lazy, grouchy and have a great deal of hopeless swotting ahead of me. Good night!</div>
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Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-32198895060884498312013-03-04T09:57:00.001-08:002013-03-04T09:57:04.623-08:00Compartments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Life is divided into neat little compartments. No, we divide life into neat little compartments. To help us deal with Life. Everyone's compartments are different. It's a girl's job to be tidy, because men won't be neat. So when a boy chucks his pants on the floor, he's told not to do it, without really expecting him to follow it. Maybe it's laughed off. A girl would be told off till the words go till how she won't be able to manage getting married.<div>
They can even be misused. A male ticket collector cannot check a loud mouthed brash woman refusing to pay the fine for travelling with a wrong ticket and forces her way out without paying. Women cannot be touched. He will lose his job.</div>
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Compartments help us deal with the world around us, to simplify things, to make them easier to understand. A boy who speaks couthly, must be better to deal with than a loud mouthed one.</div>
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Make a compartment for girls who criticize , call them bitches, stay away from bitches.</div>
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I am being compartmentalized. I am compartmentalizing myself into a person that will be easier to be, it seems. I am forgetting a different person I used to be. Forgetting what it is to do something because you enjoy doing it, you enjoy being good at it, you enjoy working at it. Not because being good at it is important for your future.</div>
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The world will always compartmentalize you. Because it isn't everyone's job to understand you. But I never liked being restricted. I always tried breaking out of the mould. I wanted to be different. I wanted to be somethin' else. I wanted to be a surprise, always.</div>
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Lately, I'm not surprising anyone except myself, today. When I woke and realised what I'd been doing.</div>
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It's such a cliche, Don't Let Yourself Be Ruled By Cliches. But sometimes you think maybe, the cliche is what the real thing should be like.</div>
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Life is short, too fluid, too malleable for cliches.</div>
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Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-19906491521767189582012-12-09T07:57:00.003-08:002013-10-10T20:58:57.063-07:00Procrastination and hence derived rants.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been a very long time since I felt like writing. There have always been words in my head, spinning from memories, situations, descriptions, anything and everything. Sometimes I would put them down on paper. Sometimes I'd pull my phone and quickly save that one sentence that floated in my head and just resonated of power.Lately, the words have been scarce, fewer in between. Maybe it's because of the life I'm beginning to lead, so devoid of creative expression, of the joy of a beautifully written poem, the discovery of meanings within words, of songs that struck a chord.<br />
Learning medicine a magic in itself, but it's a dry sort of magic so far, because it's only magical when you actually begin to apply the science to living breathing people.<br />
Before I begin to write, there are dozens of half formed ideas and words that swirl around in my head but which all vanish as soon as the page is opened and the blank canvas, so to speak, is facing me. So I just begin to write, haphazard, mercy to the whim of the words that come pouring out of me as they will.<br />
An idea will form, and I will follow it, born and triggered by any random phrase that occurs. For instance, as I typed 'phrase' I realized how dependent I have become on technology to correct my spelling errors; my Android has Swype, which means that so long as I swish my fingers over the virtual keyboard in the general composition of a word, it will gather the information and present to me the words it thought I meant to type, or guesses wrong, and instead of typing the word out I just swish again hoping it will recognize what I was getting at.<br />
I could blame it on my system of schooling, where the computer lab was built in the year I passed tenth grade, and was available only for the Computer Science batch in twelfth grade; I was in the biology optional, far removed from the air conditioned comforts of the computer lab. Hence my awkwardness with technology and typing; everyone who has seen me type finds it either hilarious or mortifying; I type like a awkward pianist searching for the next note by the score, on the keys.<br />
However, I know a great deal of people with the same schooling that I have had who are not remotely as technologically challenged as I am, so it must be defective equipment somewhere in my brain; as far as I know they haven't identified the areas for technology, and therefore I don't know why my Broca's area, normally quite above average, should trip over itself and fumble simple spelling when faced with typing. Perhaps I will have to revisit Preparatory class and learn typing in the same manner I learn to write, painstakingly tracing the letters over and over again under the watchful gaze of my mother who would snap if I curved the small "a" wrong.<br />
For another instance as I wrote the phrase 'song which struck a chord' it, well, struck me that I have an odd taste in music. I dislike the Beatles; I find most of their music a tad creepy and well, unpolished; I don't quite know how to put it. I had to make myself listen to their songs over and over until I finally began to appreciate it; I still won't voluntarily listen to a Beatles song, and there aren't any on my playlist anymore; I deleted the few that had found their way in after a relationship with a head over heels Beatles's fan, because I realized that I just wasn't listening to them anymore after the initial few times I had made myself listen to sort of acclimatize myself to their sound. I don't like much of the old music that most people swear by; The Doors, Pink Floyd. I didn't feel moved by their music.<br />
I'll admit I don't know much about music, despite learning the piano for a longer time than I'll admit, because everyone especially random family members expect you to jump at the nearest keyboard you see and belt out some flawless Mozart and Beethoven and when you say you don't really know the accompaniments to any desi song they know, they just look at you in a such way that causes you to call into question all those years of slogging away at the keys. All that learning to perfect a trill so it seamlessly blends into the next note. No one seems to understand that performing for any audience takes some kind of preparatory effort beforehand; in their eyes anyone who's been learning that long should have half a dozen pieces up their sleeve ready to be called out at a moment's notice.<br />
I digress. As to music, I have difficulty appreciating the type of music that evokes fans en masse; I find Enrique's lyrics mindless and Barbie-dollish, though I wholly appreciate the man's looks! I find rap harsh and very few appeal to me. I balk at artists whose music starts sounding the same after the first few good albums.(Taylor Swift, ahem ahem) I understand that a lot of them put a great deal of effort into their music( not all of them do) and I respect the effort. Also, being a tiny bit of a snob, I involuntarily turn my nose up at mainstream artists that anyone and everyone likes without even knowing some of the really great music out there, who say they love rock, and listen to Greenday.<br />
Hence I don't understand the concept of a favorite artist; artists aren't perfect and if there are some songs that are great, there are some that fall flat. I have a great many songs that I love; but I barely listen to any of the other songs produced by the same artist.<br />
This was a general rave for the purpose of procrastinating the great deal of donkey work that anticipates;<br />
medical students have to spend a major part of their lives doing a lot of completely pointless copying out, in beautiful handwriting, pages and pages of journal work from a tiny cellphone screen.<br />
Or run around hunting for the manna from heaven that is a completed journal which can be copied from before it's time for the practical. I could write an entire post on journal work and how it gets done, or not. So forgive the typos and grammatical mistakes; I shall probably get around to correcting them someday and in the process attempt to wean myself from depending too heavily on Swype and autocorrect. My non existent readers, please keep in mind I am a unnecessarily stressed, creatively deprived medical student and kindly attribute the inanity of my post to my current lack of a life. Thank you.<br />
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Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-33433194116194612872012-07-28T02:16:00.000-07:002012-07-28T02:16:15.168-07:00Hiding my heart<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Like everything I've ever known. You disappear one day. And I've spent my whole life hiding my heart away.<br />
They said such terrible things about you. I didn't want to believe them. I wanted to believe that you had a little person hidden away inside that would fit with me. I wish I could've been close to you. I wish I could've known you better. Always wanting more, scared of taking it. Your world was so different. I felt like we had no chance together. And I was probably right. I found a boy who is perfect for me. <span style="background-color: white;">I thought I had forgotten that little ache. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">And one day so many things happened. Little things. That brought you back. And I guess I should get used to the fact that always, whatever happens, there's going to be that little question in my head.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">What if.</span></div>Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-67625860751216131342012-06-18T19:17:00.001-07:002012-06-29T02:57:46.420-07:00Rain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white;">It has rained today.</span></div>
The air smells fresh.<br />
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I loved the rains as a child. I reveled in the first shower of the season .</div>
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Ran up to my friend's terrace,out into the courtyard, into the balcony,leaned out the window, all for the joy of touching the water that descended from the sky above. </div>
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It seemed like magic to me. I laughed at the joy of raindrops splashing onto my upturned face, trying to catch one in my mouth. I loved the freshness of the colours of the leaves and flowers around, washed clean of the gritty dust they would be usually covered in.</div>
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I loved the cool, clean taste of the air after the hot,humid, blazing stillness that precedes a shower. I jumped wholeheartedly into puddles that formed in our school, my courtyard, much to the disgust of other, more dignified persons.</div>
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The perfume of wet earth after the first shower is yet to me the best perfume in the world. I would sniff and sniff like an enthusiastic puppy, trying to drink in as much of the smell as I could. The world is a wondrous place when you are new to it.</div>
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I remember a particularly eventful day when some school friends and I once got caught in a downpour. We had only one umbrella between six of us. Splashing through puddles, running for shelter, trying to shop for jeans in a half soaked state, worrying about dripping all over the shop floor and walking out without buying anything in the end. It still makes me laugh when I think back to it.<span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"> For the past two years, I've been mostly worried about how much acid the first rain would contain,how the water would ruin my hair, the general state the roads will get into,the annoyance of having to carry a raincoat or an umbrella every where. </span></div>
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Sunny summer days suddenly start seeming appealing - I'm used to the heat by now, atleast it doesn't turn the roads into a mess! I've been so busy complaining that I've learnt to forget how I loved the rains. I've noticed that whenever I start complaining about something, little by little, I learn to forget the things I appreciate about it. And one day only the complaints remain and the beauty of that something lies forgotten in a dusty recess of my mind. So its about time I stopped, and laughed again at the joy of raindrops splashing onto my face, leaning out of a train, watching the freshly laundered countryside rush by. </div>
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The roads will remain messy; but the air will still be cooler,the leaves of the laburnum a delightful lime green,its flowers a soft, glowing, golden. The rain splashing onto my face will still be magical,a gift from the heavens. It is good to remember to see the world through a child's eyes once in a while.</div>
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</div>Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-89640593789475583662012-06-17T08:28:00.001-07:002012-06-17T08:28:51.410-07:00Anger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So easy to get angry. So easy to get upset. So easy to blame. So ridiculously easy to hurt someone else in your anger. So easy to judge. Why is it so hard to be calm?</div>Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-42882088825700619202012-05-11T22:49:00.001-07:002012-05-11T22:49:18.572-07:00River<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I sit by a mighty river, born of glaciers far above. The hills rise around me cloaked in pine and fir. The very air has spirit, crisp, invigorating, filling me with an emotion I cannot describe. The river crashes and tumbles through rapids downstream,that churn its blue green waters into white foam. And then it calms down, becoming idyllic, a peaceful mass of turquoise and lapis lazuli. Cliffs rise around it far ahead, blocks of mountain eroded by the river. Her banks are a sheet of soft white sands that catch the sun and sparkle. I step onto the rocks by her edge, warmed by the sun, watching her flow by me. Once, I rafted in this river. I drop a leaf, the color of sunset into her waters and watch it being carried away.<br />
Beyond rise the mountains that gave birth to her, their summits cloaked in snow.<br />
As she flows she will come to civilization. And her waters will no more be pure.<br />
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I think of another river, so large, so expansive that you might mistake her for a lake.So deep that she bore dolphins. Her waters were the purest, and she was worshiped for it, believed to cleanse the sins of whoever bathed in her. But then there came a time that she was given impurity beyond her capacity to cleanse. Her worship turned into a curse for her. She is yet revered. Her powers prevent her from becoming like the rivers of my city, so bogged down by human decadence that they can barely be called rivers anymore.</div>
</div>Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-36233235626833865292012-05-09T23:46:00.001-07:002012-05-10T00:07:13.072-07:00Michael Meets Mozart - 1 Piano, 2 Guys, 100 Cello Tracks - The Piano Guys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/rR94NDIfGmA?fs=1" width="480"></iframe><br />
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<span style="text-align: left;">Tomorrow is always a better day. And nothing can make me cheer up like ThePianoGuys. I aspire to be as good someday. *sigh* </span><br />
Have you had those days where you just can't seem to get out of a bad mood? Music is my way of getting out of it. Music and sleep.<br />
<br /></div>Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-2779277105469263242012-05-07T07:12:00.000-07:002012-05-07T07:12:11.726-07:00Communicators<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So, I've been thinking. All around me people are doing awesome things with their lives. While sit at home and read about muscles and nerves and arteries. Which, I suppose, will help me do awesome things later on in life, but I want to do something <i>now.</i> Later on, a lot of people will be doing the same awesome thing I am doing. The others will have proceeded.<div>
Kids my age are brilliant photographers( I think it's quite the 'in'thing to be a dedicated photographer these days) when I lost the only camera I had half a year ago and rely on my phone's ( and my) crappy photograph taking abilities.</div>
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Friends are getting published and paid for it.</div>
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Being wonderful musicians, for their age.</div>
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Brilliant speakers who can debate me out of anything.</div>
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Above all they're good communicators. </div>
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So I'm going to do my best to be one.</div>
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Starting with, a blog post everyday.</div>
</div>Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-12113383544147084342012-02-26T02:26:00.000-08:002012-02-26T02:26:41.874-08:00Hymn to Isis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">For I am the first and the last</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the venerated and the despised</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the prostitute and the saint</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the wife and the virgin</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the mother and the daughter</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the arms of my mother</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am barren and my children are many</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the married woman and the spinster</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the woman who gives birth and she who never procreated</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the consolation for the pain of birth</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the wife and the husband</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">And it was my man who created me</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the mother of my father</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I am the sister of my husband</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">And he is my rejected son</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">Always respect me</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">For I am the shameful and the magnificent one</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #2e2e2e; font-family: Molengo, 'Trebuchet MS', Corbel, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 1.571em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><em style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">discovered in Nag Hammadi, 1947</em></div></div>Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-15444105020123825862012-02-25T05:06:00.000-08:002012-02-25T05:06:01.788-08:00Resolutions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's been a long time since I last posted. Last week has been a haze of depression, tiredness, and alcohol.Alright, maybe I made that sound more melodramatic than it actually was was. A lot of the depression was from hormones. Or the lack of them. And the alcohol was just two nights, which were good times with good friends.<br />
But I wasn't kidding about the tired bit. Not so much physically as mentally. Just as I feel like I'm settling, like I'm getting better at dealing with life. I get knocked down again. Usually, it's something minor. I end up taking it to heart and and suddenly, there I am on my knees again. I keep trying, but somehow it''s never enough for myself.<br />
One good thing about the week? I've learnt to face myself. Learnt to understand what I am doing wrong. Got out of my comfort zone. Now comes getting around it.<br />
I have this tendency to judge myself about everything. I end up being my own worst critic. Imagine if you had a person in your head all the time constantly judging every action you take. Yeah, it sucks. Another problem with being this way is that when I do make mistakes, instead of accepting the mistake, I end up blaming someone else, or denying I made the mistake or trying to push it out of my head. Because if I accept the mistake, I will beat myself up black and blue. Mistakes are made to learn from;and there is no such thing a problem without a gift in its hands. I lose the gift, and make the mistake.<br />
New year's resolution, go easier on myself. Today when I was beating myself up over the fact that I had forgotten to pick up some things I needed today, my best friend told me to calm down. My world wasn't going to fall apart if didn't get everything done in a day. I don't have to be perfect all the time, because it's impossible. People make mistakes. It's only human.And guess what, my world didn't fall apart. I cancelled music lessons, didn't get yelled at, got the rest I really needed, spent some quality time with myself ,caught up with a few old friends and ate chocolate.<br />
My own personal peace of mind should, sometimes, take precedence over everything else. </div>Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-854661031611903522.post-40100509426081407352012-01-14T23:05:00.001-08:002013-10-10T20:59:55.460-07:00Beginnings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It is a Sunday afternoon the day I begin to work on my blog. This is something I have wanted to do for a long time. And I am almost surprised at how easy it is. </div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Outside it is cold and the tips of my fingers and toes feel the chill. Today is Makar Sankranti, the day the Sun passes into Capricorn. The days will grow longer from on now and hopefully the nights will grow warmer. It is queer, how when I am going about Life in general, there are so many words float into my head, but when I sit down, and try to put them on paper or print, they float back out and none suggest themselves to me. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: justify;">I want this blog to be a place people can find bits of themselves in, because I am a collage of so many different moods, temperaments and colors. Everyone is. So this first post shall be a collage. Apologies to those who would take offense at the scattering of thoughts and ideas. That is often how my head works.</span></div>
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I want this blog to be a place for people to lose themselves in. There is nothing quite so delightful as losing yourself in another world built up of words crafted and woven together well. It is a delight to weave words too. I have often re read my old diaries to find the girl that once was, the one that still is and the one that may be in the future.<br />
I want this blog to be a place of repose and of inspiration. A place of the joys and sorrows of everyday life. Of finding myself, and also of creating myself.</div>
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"Where the mind is without fear, and the head is held high.</div>
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....Where words come out of the depth of truth</div>
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Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection."</div>
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Tagore is one of my favorite poets. </div>
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I am learning to let go of fear. </div>
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Sodahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11892349958142335076noreply@blogger.com1