The Bridges of Madison County.
In the Shadow of Mountains by Steve McCurry.
Patterns and textures You bring to life.
nautical miles - the world in triumphs, in passion; viewed from a million angles.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
Monday, December 7, 2009
When We Talk
Like, how icy fingers and sweet fatigue
We wake up with
(Did it rain in our dreams?)
Linger at our memories edge.
You look outside the window and the leaves are wet, the city cold.
Like, how fragrance of cut-grass
We walk past by
On a hot summer day
Cannot be remembered again.
The breeze shifts, and now brings you stories of crowded, hot towns.
We wake up with
(Did it rain in our dreams?)
Linger at our memories edge.
You look outside the window and the leaves are wet, the city cold.
Like, how fragrance of cut-grass
We walk past by
On a hot summer day
Cannot be remembered again.
The breeze shifts, and now brings you stories of crowded, hot towns.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Raining Rays
In the bus, a girl turned her head, the sunlight caught her nose-ring and made her the dazzling beauty in the whole world at that moment.
The little boy stood barefoot, his sandals nearby, his hands held in a prayer. He was facing the temple on the other side of the road, the sun beating down mercilessly.
Under the dim streetlight, a passerby whispered a long sentence. Sometimes not knowing the language is a boon.
Someone paced through the crowded cafe, cellphone to the ear, oblivious to the noise. He had a swimmer's body.
There is an S-curve in the lawn. A leading-line on the third floor towards the evening sun, a perfect-golden-red.
The neighbour's 2-year old imitated my 'haeyyy'. Her mother was wearing pearl drop earrings.
The little boy stood barefoot, his sandals nearby, his hands held in a prayer. He was facing the temple on the other side of the road, the sun beating down mercilessly.
Under the dim streetlight, a passerby whispered a long sentence. Sometimes not knowing the language is a boon.
Someone paced through the crowded cafe, cellphone to the ear, oblivious to the noise. He had a swimmer's body.
There is an S-curve in the lawn. A leading-line on the third floor towards the evening sun, a perfect-golden-red.
The neighbour's 2-year old imitated my 'haeyyy'. Her mother was wearing pearl drop earrings.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Time Travel
It is amazing how one road leads to another, and our hearts grow heavy with all the richness we go through, over the years.
Then, a blast from the past takes you back to a point in time, maybe, to where you are waiting for the bus, and the neighbourhood handsome who had lent you his books, asks you about your exams and his voice materializes real slowly in your brain and you are thinking 'WHEN was my exams?!'; it is fun, really, this blast to the past.
But it is fazing, when the person you encounter there, the real you, is completely different from the one you remember yourself to be then. You realize then that you have twisted your own story over time. You remember with passion not a hated past.
You remember yourself to be in good times, and sometimes it is all that matters.
Then, a blast from the past takes you back to a point in time, maybe, to where you are waiting for the bus, and the neighbourhood handsome who had lent you his books, asks you about your exams and his voice materializes real slowly in your brain and you are thinking 'WHEN was my exams?!'; it is fun, really, this blast to the past.
But it is fazing, when the person you encounter there, the real you, is completely different from the one you remember yourself to be then. You realize then that you have twisted your own story over time. You remember with passion not a hated past.
You remember yourself to be in good times, and sometimes it is all that matters.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
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