He was a mighty brute. The sight of him often made people shudder. Children ran away at the sight of him. He had a harsh exterior. He was big. He was loud. New people made him jumpy and that scared people away.
But his eyes could make you weep. Once he got to know you, and you him, he would come to you, overflowing with love. He was loving. And he was gentle. And all he needed was some love. Some attention and love, and there goes his tail, wagging away so hard it could knock you off your feet.
He was the reason they say dogs are your best friends.
Happy birthday Coco. You know how much we miss you.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Daisy Days and Numbing Nights
Here I am, again. Well, this barely counts as again since I was here just now. Literally. I never went off, actually. I just crave intelligent conversation. And I happen to like myself. Therefore, I like to converse with myself. Also, I like to pretend that you, who's reading this right now, is intelligent. Therefore, I am having an intelligent conversation with you now.
I flatter myself, don't I? Thinking that there are people out there who actually read the blog. Well, that might be my fault, to a certain extent. But only a very certain extent. I'm private about my writing. That is mainly due to the fact that I'm very insecure about what I write. Oh, yes I am. I am extremely insecure. Therefore, I'm not comfortable sharing this blog on facebook. Since I don't share it, no one reads it. I'm a coward, aren't I? And here I am, doing an English major so I can write. *sigh* What a fool *mutters to self* what a fool.
I read other people's blogs. They seem so impressive. With their big, beautiful, creative words and their poetry that appears to be spun lightly with gold and light and laid out in intricate patterns that hang lightly and flow with your eyes and wrap themselves around your hearts till you feel you're flying.
I wish I could write like that. I read those blogs, and envy lays over me, in layers and layers as thin and infinite as that in a lachha parantha. There goes the proof. Lachha parantha. I compared my envy to the layers of a lachha parantha.
I'm happy today, thought. I might complain. I might crib. I might wallow away and daunt your hearts with my melancholy despairing. But, I'm happy.
After the long, repetitive chain of dozing days and nocturnal nights, I finally saw the light of day again. What a change it is!!
The day really seems to have 24 hours again. I watch the sun rise from my window. Every morning. The sun is beautiful as it rises. The sky turns from a dark, dark grape coloured expanse to the colour of cherries. Deep, dark red. The cherries turn to strawberries. Strawberries turn to apples. The sun rises, like deep flaming mandarin and squeezes it's light, playful juice and spreads it around. The blue of the sky plays with the lemon in such a happy manner, as to make lemonade. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. When the sun rises to the sky, the world has lemonade. It wake you up and fills you with the promise of juice and freshness and brightness. That's what a sunrise is like. It's beautiful, isn't it? :)
And when the sun rises, and the snow if still falling, it is like the stars are falling to the ground. The snow jumps around, glittering like a thousand diamonds. I will always hate myself for this reference, but the snow falls as though someone took Edward Cullen up into the sky, put dynamite in him, and blew him up, and pieces of him turned to powder and fell through the sky, glittering and dancing in the sunlight.
I have been listening to a band recently, called Beirut. They are the most different and unique and just..... quaint music I have a heard in a while. Their music makes me think of beaches and circuses and tall grass that reaches up to your waist and ships in bottles and pirates and hourglasses and violet and daisies and patches and elephants and banjos and porches and confetti and country and dancing and swinging and of all the pretty things in the world. They are the closest definition to the word quaint.
I flatter myself, don't I? Thinking that there are people out there who actually read the blog. Well, that might be my fault, to a certain extent. But only a very certain extent. I'm private about my writing. That is mainly due to the fact that I'm very insecure about what I write. Oh, yes I am. I am extremely insecure. Therefore, I'm not comfortable sharing this blog on facebook. Since I don't share it, no one reads it. I'm a coward, aren't I? And here I am, doing an English major so I can write. *sigh* What a fool *mutters to self* what a fool.
I read other people's blogs. They seem so impressive. With their big, beautiful, creative words and their poetry that appears to be spun lightly with gold and light and laid out in intricate patterns that hang lightly and flow with your eyes and wrap themselves around your hearts till you feel you're flying.
I wish I could write like that. I read those blogs, and envy lays over me, in layers and layers as thin and infinite as that in a lachha parantha. There goes the proof. Lachha parantha. I compared my envy to the layers of a lachha parantha.
I'm happy today, thought. I might complain. I might crib. I might wallow away and daunt your hearts with my melancholy despairing. But, I'm happy.
After the long, repetitive chain of dozing days and nocturnal nights, I finally saw the light of day again. What a change it is!!
The day really seems to have 24 hours again. I watch the sun rise from my window. Every morning. The sun is beautiful as it rises. The sky turns from a dark, dark grape coloured expanse to the colour of cherries. Deep, dark red. The cherries turn to strawberries. Strawberries turn to apples. The sun rises, like deep flaming mandarin and squeezes it's light, playful juice and spreads it around. The blue of the sky plays with the lemon in such a happy manner, as to make lemonade. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. When the sun rises to the sky, the world has lemonade. It wake you up and fills you with the promise of juice and freshness and brightness. That's what a sunrise is like. It's beautiful, isn't it? :)
And when the sun rises, and the snow if still falling, it is like the stars are falling to the ground. The snow jumps around, glittering like a thousand diamonds. I will always hate myself for this reference, but the snow falls as though someone took Edward Cullen up into the sky, put dynamite in him, and blew him up, and pieces of him turned to powder and fell through the sky, glittering and dancing in the sunlight.
I have been listening to a band recently, called Beirut. They are the most different and unique and just..... quaint music I have a heard in a while. Their music makes me think of beaches and circuses and tall grass that reaches up to your waist and ships in bottles and pirates and hourglasses and violet and daisies and patches and elephants and banjos and porches and confetti and country and dancing and swinging and of all the pretty things in the world. They are the closest definition to the word quaint.
Ma heietama liiga palju
I just saw my first snowfall. Well, to be honest, I saw my first snowfall quite a few days back. But I didn't get around to writing about it. I was busy, you could say. Though I would say I had just gotten around to a vacation and was avoiding all forms of communication with all reminders of college or my past life or home. Anything that hurt, basically. I wanted my vacation to be happy. Hearing from my friends at home hurt. It hurt, because I wanted to be home so badly, and I couldn't. My longing for home has become a part of me. For years, home has had a deadline for me. It is a melancholy emptiness in me that thirsts to be filled. I wish, just once, I could fill that emptiness; fill it till it flowed and overflowed and till I wished no more. I wish... We wish for a lot. For money, for a big house, a big car, an awesome spouse... Well, who wouldn't want any of those. Of course, everyone does.
I wish....
I wish I had complete freedom. Freedom to do what I wished. Freedom from "them." Freedom from "it". The unholy "it" of money. Freedom from everything, but my own will. And what I wouldn't do then.
This is the part where I go ahead and sort of disagree with Ayn Rand. Objectivism is not the only way to live. In fact, were there no objects, no money, man would be free. But were it not for money, there would be no system. Would that be good? Or would it be bad?
I like being the devil's advocate. It's just a thing. There are so many times when a group of people (usually youngsters) would be discussing something, and they would almost all pick the same side. Even if I did agree with that side, however, just to show them that the other side did exist, was possible, and did have it perks, I'd pick it, just to show them that. Ego issues, aren't those?
But, hey, I was talking about snowfall. I ramble too much. Once I start, I don't know when to stop. My mind runs too fast for me to process it. Sometime I like to go back and retrace my steps, just to re-discover the marvel that is our minds. Isn't it brilliant?
I'll fill you in on the snowfall some other time :)
Till then, maybe you should think about whether the absence of money would be good or bad. Don't think about "what people would think". Think about whether it'll be good or bad according to YOUR standards of good and bad.
P.S. My mind is at a creative blank right now, as my post might've revealed.
P.P.S. That's why, since I couldn't think of a nice, creativity-induced title for the post, I just went to Google translate, wrote "I ramble too much" and translated it to Estonian. There. I just saved you the effort of opening google translate and going through all of that. All hail laziness!
I wish....
I wish I had complete freedom. Freedom to do what I wished. Freedom from "them." Freedom from "it". The unholy "it" of money. Freedom from everything, but my own will. And what I wouldn't do then.
This is the part where I go ahead and sort of disagree with Ayn Rand. Objectivism is not the only way to live. In fact, were there no objects, no money, man would be free. But were it not for money, there would be no system. Would that be good? Or would it be bad?
I like being the devil's advocate. It's just a thing. There are so many times when a group of people (usually youngsters) would be discussing something, and they would almost all pick the same side. Even if I did agree with that side, however, just to show them that the other side did exist, was possible, and did have it perks, I'd pick it, just to show them that. Ego issues, aren't those?
But, hey, I was talking about snowfall. I ramble too much. Once I start, I don't know when to stop. My mind runs too fast for me to process it. Sometime I like to go back and retrace my steps, just to re-discover the marvel that is our minds. Isn't it brilliant?
I'll fill you in on the snowfall some other time :)
Till then, maybe you should think about whether the absence of money would be good or bad. Don't think about "what people would think". Think about whether it'll be good or bad according to YOUR standards of good and bad.
P.S. My mind is at a creative blank right now, as my post might've revealed.
P.P.S. That's why, since I couldn't think of a nice, creativity-induced title for the post, I just went to Google translate, wrote "I ramble too much" and translated it to Estonian. There. I just saved you the effort of opening google translate and going through all of that. All hail laziness!
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Rage
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHIPUWE QIXMEUMROHsdjdffs kjd kfbksjdfbmkjnsfNXO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This anger has been eating me up for months. FOR MONTHS!!! Ages. FOR A YEAR!!!!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I need to scream. And rip. And yell. And tear. ANd destroy. and yell and yell and yell and scream and shout and tear till i cant breathe and have destroyed EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD AND AROUND ME. I WANT TO RIP OUT THE WORLD. I WANT TO SCREAM OUT EVERY WORD I KNOW. I want to tear out the keys I'm typing with and hold them in my hands and slowly and furiously and with a burning, flaming rage watch as i hold them in my fingers and crush them and watch them turn into chunks and then into powder and slowly collapse t the floor.
it's fire. It's blinding me. It's making me mad. It's mking me furious. I'm filled with rage.
I want to break. And smash. And crush. And burn. And tear.
This anger. has. been. earting. me. up. for. a year.
FOR. A. YEAR!!!
I. need. to. let. it. out.
I want to rip into the chest of the person who caused it. And tear out his being. And hold it in my hand. And squeeze it. And make it stop.
And I want to hug and cry with the cause of the rage.
I want to hug the cause. And love it.
And I hate it.
And my love for the cause makes me hate it even more.
it's confusing, isn't it?
Love.
Or the illusion we create that we feel is love.
It's a strong illusion that we create. Strong enough that sometimes, it destroys us.
This anger has been eating me up for months. FOR MONTHS!!! Ages. FOR A YEAR!!!!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I need to scream. And rip. And yell. And tear. ANd destroy. and yell and yell and yell and scream and shout and tear till i cant breathe and have destroyed EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD AND AROUND ME. I WANT TO RIP OUT THE WORLD. I WANT TO SCREAM OUT EVERY WORD I KNOW. I want to tear out the keys I'm typing with and hold them in my hands and slowly and furiously and with a burning, flaming rage watch as i hold them in my fingers and crush them and watch them turn into chunks and then into powder and slowly collapse t the floor.
it's fire. It's blinding me. It's making me mad. It's mking me furious. I'm filled with rage.
I want to break. And smash. And crush. And burn. And tear.
This anger. has. been. earting. me. up. for. a year.
FOR. A. YEAR!!!
I. need. to. let. it. out.
I want to rip into the chest of the person who caused it. And tear out his being. And hold it in my hand. And squeeze it. And make it stop.
And I want to hug and cry with the cause of the rage.
I want to hug the cause. And love it.
And I hate it.
And my love for the cause makes me hate it even more.
it's confusing, isn't it?
Love.
Or the illusion we create that we feel is love.
It's a strong illusion that we create. Strong enough that sometimes, it destroys us.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Poetry..
Dear Cola and Bumbum,
It's frustrating how knowingly-oblivious you both are to your frantic obsession with each other. And it's so obvious. And so perfect. ANd you're both too dumb to realise that you've realised it. Or to acknowledge the fact that you've realised it to each other.
I mean, for months I read all your statuses and posts about movie reviews, tennis matches, lame stuff (in Cola's case), and lesbianism, a battle of the your egos and all sorts of different stuff (in Pooja's case.) And now here you both are, writing and quoting poetry. Here you both are, writing blogs, writing poetry, finding poetry relevant to the other, getting inspired.
Why don't you both just accept it and let the other person know you've accepted it, and mutually accept all of this and each other??
But that would kill the magic, wouldn't it? :)
Jaskunwar Kohli. Pooja Elangbam.
Poetry is what you want it to be. What you believe it to be.
It is not a constant. It changes. It keeps changing.
Poetry is time.
Poetry is change.
Poetry is YOU.
Which is why, Cola, poetry is love. And love is poetry. :)
Do you both understand that?
I think you already did. I just wanted to say it anyway.
So here's a toast.
Let's let that poetry live on forever.
Kundu
a.k.a.
Kundi
:)
It's frustrating how knowingly-oblivious you both are to your frantic obsession with each other. And it's so obvious. And so perfect. ANd you're both too dumb to realise that you've realised it. Or to acknowledge the fact that you've realised it to each other.
I mean, for months I read all your statuses and posts about movie reviews, tennis matches, lame stuff (in Cola's case), and lesbianism, a battle of the your egos and all sorts of different stuff (in Pooja's case.) And now here you both are, writing and quoting poetry. Here you both are, writing blogs, writing poetry, finding poetry relevant to the other, getting inspired.
Why don't you both just accept it and let the other person know you've accepted it, and mutually accept all of this and each other??
But that would kill the magic, wouldn't it? :)
Jaskunwar Kohli. Pooja Elangbam.
Poetry is what you want it to be. What you believe it to be.
It is not a constant. It changes. It keeps changing.
Poetry is time.
Poetry is change.
Poetry is YOU.
Which is why, Cola, poetry is love. And love is poetry. :)
Do you both understand that?
I think you already did. I just wanted to say it anyway.
So here's a toast.
Let's let that poetry live on forever.
Kundu
a.k.a.
Kundi
:)
After Sunset
'tis time.
It is time for me to face that face. To look into it. To stare at it. To dive and slowly cut into those eyes. To look at that drop of water. To savor it and enjoy it. To gobble it up. To feed on that despair. To feed on the shock and thunder as I struck the lightning. To excite the thunder. To make it rain. To make the drops fall, one by one. Drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick Tick. Drip. Tick Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Drip. Drip. Drip.Drip.Drip.drip.drip.drip.dripdripdripdripdripdripdrip.
The dripping increased to pattering.
The raindrops fell. They flooded the valleys and the hills, the mounds, covered with smooth, soft skin. Rivers flowed from those clouds. From the thunder. The dark, grey thunder. Torrents. Meandering around the hills. Falling to the earth in showers.
Yet.
Yet those eyes just looked. Thunder. Storm. Rage. Whirlpools. They stared. I dove harder. Thunder, struck by lightning.
The eyes. Thunder surrounded by an autumn. By falling leaves. Golden. Red. Orange. Flaming. The thunder shook them and they flailed wildly about. Limp. Dying. Yet burning. Soft leaves. They fell down on her shoulders, wildly flailing about as the thunder shook that world. They fell, merging with the brightness, with the sun setting at her waist.
The sunset. Red. Bright. Flowing from that world. Flowing around the sharpness cutting into her.
Her hands crawled up, like five-legged spiders. They crawled up slowly, but definitely, heading for their kill. They crawled up, and felt the sharpness. The eyes still stared.
The thunder roared. The sunset spread. Red turned to lust. Lust turned rust. Rust turned to wine. And the wine spread. The pools of her eyes. The pools of the wine.
Clouds.
Drip. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. D..r..i..p. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Crash.
The clouds took a deep, dark breath.
The sun slowly rose. It rose, and it pulled up its horizon. I smiled and I walked away.
Night had passed.
It is time for me to face that face. To look into it. To stare at it. To dive and slowly cut into those eyes. To look at that drop of water. To savor it and enjoy it. To gobble it up. To feed on that despair. To feed on the shock and thunder as I struck the lightning. To excite the thunder. To make it rain. To make the drops fall, one by one. Drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick Tick. Drip. Tick Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Drip. Drip. Drip.Drip.Drip.drip.drip.drip.dripdripdripdripdripdripdrip.
The dripping increased to pattering.
The raindrops fell. They flooded the valleys and the hills, the mounds, covered with smooth, soft skin. Rivers flowed from those clouds. From the thunder. The dark, grey thunder. Torrents. Meandering around the hills. Falling to the earth in showers.
Yet.
Yet those eyes just looked. Thunder. Storm. Rage. Whirlpools. They stared. I dove harder. Thunder, struck by lightning.
The eyes. Thunder surrounded by an autumn. By falling leaves. Golden. Red. Orange. Flaming. The thunder shook them and they flailed wildly about. Limp. Dying. Yet burning. Soft leaves. They fell down on her shoulders, wildly flailing about as the thunder shook that world. They fell, merging with the brightness, with the sun setting at her waist.
The sunset. Red. Bright. Flowing from that world. Flowing around the sharpness cutting into her.
Her hands crawled up, like five-legged spiders. They crawled up slowly, but definitely, heading for their kill. They crawled up, and felt the sharpness. The eyes still stared.
The thunder roared. The sunset spread. Red turned to lust. Lust turned rust. Rust turned to wine. And the wine spread. The pools of her eyes. The pools of the wine.
Clouds.
Drip. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. Drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. D..r..i..p. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Crash.
The clouds took a deep, dark breath.
The sun slowly rose. It rose, and it pulled up its horizon. I smiled and I walked away.
Night had passed.
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