Look out your back window or door — describe what you see, as if you were trying to convey the scene to someone from another country or planet.
In any other circumstances I would describe the view from my back door/window intensively/extensively because I’m good in words. But today unfortunately I can’t because I still having major problems with my right arm and my left is preparing to join in so, I decided I will let images do the talking. It’s a view from the back door of our sub/urban home. Enjoy…
And until we can see each other as equals, justice is never going to be even-handed. It will remain nothing more than a reflection of our own prejudices.
We will see each other again; I don’t know where I don’t know when
There are so many questions I wanted to ask
But you are no longer here
We never said goodbye but I still remember your face
The lies you’ve told me are arrows that pierced my chest
Why you never show care? I often ask myself
Why can’t you love me like the rest?
The pain of what you’ve done still lingers
Engraved in my memory forever
I have given up the day I sent you away
You cannot hurt me no more, mother.
You cannot go back to the past but you cannot outrun it too. It has a funny way of catching up on you when you’re not paying attention. Before you know it will slam its nasty self against your back so hard it will not only rattle your teeth but your whole foundation…
“I was recently living more comfortably surrounded by secrets… Like dozens of luxurious satiny pillows, they were embracing me from all directions into safe lulling warmth, thus isolating me from the sharp dead-cold edges of the truth hiding behind their endearingly smooth textures and tender soothing colours.
Secrets could be so irresistibly beautiful…”
Which good memories are better — the recent and vivid ones, or those that time has covered in a sweet haze?
They say memories tend to sweeten after a time, well… they don’t have my memories.
They say time heals every wound. Well, they don’t have my wounds.
They say that often times we filled in the gap in our memories with the things that never really happened. In my case it isn’t true. Recent memories are easily forgotten because they don’t hold any significance while the ones from a long time ago are still so vividly engraved in my brain.
They say the worst memories stick with us, while the nice ones always seem to slip through our fingers.
They say Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces. Well, that’s true for me. There are memories that time does not erase… Forever does not make loss forgettable, only bearable.
Time does not bring relief; who told me time would ease me of my pain. You all have lied
“The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.
They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.”
~ Pablo Neruda
Truth is a diamond; even mishandles, smeared with grease, or buried in mud, it cannot be marred and waits for one with a cloth to polish it clean.
Explore the room you’re in as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Pretend you know nothing. What do you see? Who is the person who lives there?
The room that I am in at this moment doesn’t reflect the two people who live in this house. This home office is young, hip, trendy, minimalist and devoid of any personal touch. There are only two dominant colors present: black and white. The same for the rest of the house. Might vary in shades or hues here and there but it is ton-sur-ton/monochromatic nonetheless. The only added colors throughout are a couple of huge abstract art (I made them myself) which is leaning against the wall. I rarely hang frames. Only if it is really, really necessary and will add aesthetic value to the overall look. Very different from our other abode which is french (country) chic decorated leaning on romantic. A glimpse of it you can see in the last picture in my about page. But even there, personal touch is nowhere to be seen. No (family) photographs cluttering the walls. No mementos from far away travels. No hint of my ethnicity or age. I like it that way.
Though these two houses (including the room that I’m in) don’t reflect the person that I am completely, they are part of my personality. Facets, they call them. And I have many (there, I said it myself) like onions I have many layers. It is impossible to put me in a box. I’m all that and more.
As for the other inhabitant… well… let’s say that if I give him free rein/reign, he will turn our nest into a jumble of everything he likes with dark, heavy, clumsy rustic style as a foundation. While if you see him in person, he’s countenance, age and area of expertise speak more of the home office I was talking about at the beginning of this article.
Talk of many facets. Wait till you hear his taste in music…
…fascinate me. They have over active vivid imagination. Look at the Brontë sisters… they could even write about things they never personally experience. But what I’m really curious about are those writers who work for television series, per episode. For example: Mr. Nygma of Gotham. He was just an ordinary dude in the beginning. Okay, granted, perhaps a bit odd but nevertheless one dimension-ally boring and harmless enough.
Then from one day to another they decided to make him more interesting by upgrading the ordinary dude into a full-blown schizophrenic psychopath (or it is sociopath… or maybe both) with multiple personalities, just like that. He is changed beyond belief and oh, so sudden. No prelude. What those writers say to each other during lunch/coffee break : ” Let’s fuck-up Mr. Nygma for fun. What do you think, guys?” Or it was their boss who gave the order (of course it’s the bosses who give orders) but not the ideas, or otherwise they will be writers themselves.
No wonder Lost (the series) gotten lost in transition. It started as promising as a new born love affair. But somehow/somewhere along the way, it lost its potentials. At the end, it was just one hell of a confusion. It goes like that I think if too many people with too many (great/sick) ideas who all trying their best (they think) to wow the audience lost touch of reality and just let go. They literally lost the way. Too much of anything is never good.
I know some actors write scenarios of the series they are involved with. Matthew Gray Gubler of Criminal Minds does it occasionally (but then again, he is really multi-talented and real life genius he even directed 8 episodes of the show so far. Do check him out) Randall Einhorn and Paul Feig are another examples. So, what that says about them? It takes one to know one? To conjured up pretty sick scenarios take up a lot of imagination. And if one can imagine such things…
That’s why I believe that in any other circumstances, writers are a dangerous bunch. Imagine actions supporting the theories. My, we will have a situation in our hands. But so far…
Go back in time to an event you think could have played out differently for you. Let alternate history have its moment: tell us what could, would or should have happened?
Given another chance, I would not obey the wish of my parents to marry for money even though it means being disowned. I will run away, follow my own path, choose a career I personally want for myself, stay single and never have children. I will travel the world, have affairs, and never let any man set foot in my industrial/artsy/minimalist steel and concrete with reclaimed wood for added warmth self-renovated loft with huge balcony/garden overlooking the city. I will grow old with myself and save me the trauma of a relationship/marriage that was doomed right from the start.
Given another chance, I will be me. The real one. The one that never had a chance to emerge and develop. The one who can fly and carries magic within herself…
Imagine yourself at the end of your life. What sort of legacy will you leave? Describe the lasting effect you want to have on the world, after you’re gone.
Aside from surprisingly (despite everything that had happened) turned out to be well-balanced, matured, successful in their chosen careers children of mine; I would love to leave my written works to the world. May the whole documented experience: the battles, lessons learned, triumphs and tragedies I have encountered serve as a guide to some to overcome their hurdles and avoid making the mistakes I’ve made. I hope it will give them hope and strength to face their trials and overcome everything life might decide to throw on their way.
Pause whatever you’re doing, and ask the person nearest you what they’re thinking about (call someone if you have to). Write a post based on it.
We just came from walking in the countryside (which was a mistake because, at thirty degrees celsius, it is still too hot to do some hiking. No wonder I have dizzy spells from too much sun and too much effort) and instead of lying down or disinfecting my scratches from nettles, hawthorn and other hedges, or opening all the windows and doors to have some fresh air (the house feels like an oven) I took my big camera from where I am hiding it – inside the closet between the stash of multi-colored bath towels which is normally reserved for guests but it was seven years since I bought them and they never saw guests since then – and started taking shots after shots of my Asian lilies and other flowers like Rudbeckia (coneflower, sunflowers, black-eyed Susan, etc) because I forgot to take pictures of them last night. Yes, night. Colors are more pronounced during twilight, no? and you know when it’s twilight in the summer? Yes, at night.
Then, I decided I will check today’s Daily Prompt while drinking ice-cold lemon (sparkling) water and after reading it, I looked around and asked the person next to me what he was thinking about and he said: “I think I’m going to clean the windows.”
“That’s it???” I asked in disbelief. He answered: “Not really. I am also thinking about the fact that I will never understand you. You’re a puzzle to me. But I don’t want to voice that one out.”
And I thought: clever. I continue typing and he proceeded with cleaning the windows…
“You don’t know when you’re taking the first step through a door until you’re already inside.”