1,2,3..breaaaaaaaaaathe.
3,4,5..breaaaaaaaaaathe.
5,6,7..breaaaaaaaaaathe.
7,8,9..breaaaaaaaaaathe.
Doesn't work. So much. So much. So much going on in my small little head. I don't even know what to say or how to say it. Organic or inorganic cause, there is a cause and I fail to spot it. Yes, yes crazy much. People crave for summer breaks and here I am doing absolutely nothing expect oh, oh, oh washing dishes, cleaning up the house, refreshing Facebook homepages again and again, and sleeping to keep myself from slipping into depression. Vottay vacation! :)
Gibberish, gibberish, gibberish. Trash, kachra, garbage. That's just how trains of thoughts are. Continuous, flowing like mud from neuron to neuron. Sometimes collecting in a space, a cranial sinus maybe, clogging up the flow. Sedimenting. Sucking. Silently killing a few neurons. *dishum, dishum* those neural shot guns are working again! Slivers of silver and blue sparks amongst the mud, the ultimate 'good guys' make holes in the thick layer of muddy, creepy, slimy goo. The voids keep getting bigger and bigger. Until...voila! The mud's no more than very small segments of clay floating around in cerebrospinal fluid, waiting for favorable conditions again. I swear, I'm not bipolar, just very very very 'I don't know'. =)
Summer.Bummer.
Bummer.Summer.
Lets try agaaaain, Sidra.
1,2,3..breaaaaaaaaaathe.
3,4,5..breaaaaaaaaaathe.
5,6,7..breaaaaaaaaaathe.
7,8,9..breaaaaaaaaaathe.
Still doesn't work.
:)
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Summer.Oh.Nine.
First times. [*]
Taking those very first small steps,
those angelic feet touching the arid ground,
those innocent eyes staring up,
questioning everything in the surround.
From those times, up till now,
the same words eternally in my ears chime,
Sidra, there's always a first time.
When lunchboxes swang on our shoulders,
when we fought over pencil holders,
when collecting stickers meant war,
when the moon and stars were never far,
those curls that I tossed in the air,
when like Barbie's I first grew my hair,
from those times up till now,
the same words eternally in my ears chime,
Sidra, there's always a first time.
When I learnt how to open my locker,
when I hopelessly failed to play soccer,
those secrets we shared amidst giggles,
at the sight of highschoolers, we'd wiggle,
when that first crush meant the world,
those nascent feelings made us swirl,
from those times up till now,
the same words eternally in my ears chime,
Sidra, there's always a first time.
And every other time since that very day,
I hear the same chant in one or another way,
the first time, the second, the third, the last,
it always brings up a blast from the past,
when there was no option but recovery,
from a lover that ended in pain and misery,
that time too, the incantation repeated,
that no matter how dead you feel, or depleted,
there was always a first time,
the first time, you fell off your bike,
the first time, you scraped your knee,
the first time, you fell in love,
the first time, you soul felt free,
the first time, you were betrayed,
the first time, you cried when you prayed,
the first time, you undid your braids,
the first time, you realized you had to grow,
the first time, you finally had to let go,
the first time, you picked yourself up after a fall,
the first time, you built around you, a massive wall,
like always, there's always a first time.
those angelic feet touching the arid ground,
those innocent eyes staring up,
questioning everything in the surround.
From those times, up till now,
the same words eternally in my ears chime,
Sidra, there's always a first time.
When lunchboxes swang on our shoulders,
when we fought over pencil holders,
when collecting stickers meant war,
when the moon and stars were never far,
those curls that I tossed in the air,
when like Barbie's I first grew my hair,
from those times up till now,
the same words eternally in my ears chime,
Sidra, there's always a first time.
When I learnt how to open my locker,
when I hopelessly failed to play soccer,
those secrets we shared amidst giggles,
at the sight of highschoolers, we'd wiggle,
when that first crush meant the world,
those nascent feelings made us swirl,
from those times up till now,
the same words eternally in my ears chime,
Sidra, there's always a first time.
And every other time since that very day,
I hear the same chant in one or another way,
the first time, the second, the third, the last,
it always brings up a blast from the past,
when there was no option but recovery,
from a lover that ended in pain and misery,
that time too, the incantation repeated,
that no matter how dead you feel, or depleted,
there was always a first time,
the first time, you fell off your bike,
the first time, you scraped your knee,
the first time, you fell in love,
the first time, you soul felt free,
the first time, you were betrayed,
the first time, you cried when you prayed,
the first time, you undid your braids,
the first time, you realized you had to grow,
the first time, you finally had to let go,
the first time, you picked yourself up after a fall,
the first time, you built around you, a massive wall,
like always, there's always a first time.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
multifaceted (adj)- having many facets or aspects.
Like an unattended bag left under the shade, totally oblivious to what its worth.
Like a counter bustling with exotic things that you've never seen before to choose from.
Like a boiling cup of coffee with an aroma enough to wake up the long, lost soul. A slice of cake that leaves a thick trace of chocolate on your lips even long after you've eaten it.
Like pictures on this wall, hiding the ugly yellow behind. Smiling to the tall gentleman, who walks in with his daughter or to the punk, smoking even the remnants of his cigar. Illusions, all illusions.
Like a box resting on a glass table. scribbled numbers, scrawny onions and peppers drawn all over, but so very empty inside, quite paradox to the colorful exterior it exhibits. with a burden resting above, so small to the naked eye, but so big to the soul of cardboard resting beneath.And just like that life is multifaceted.
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