tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3864134508816887692024-03-21T23:21:39.325-07:00Anonymous Dreamer MonologuesTime doesn't change feelings in their truest form, only puts them in storage.Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-65760680613382948462013-08-04T04:40:00.003-07:002013-08-04T04:48:42.927-07:00Because it's true<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgie65N8ro2k8G2pnHxLIgiFihBAhgw7sn4PupSjWNbn38MdeB7_w9NE0iY3zeEOEcwEjP19BVvLAgq4k0EmrJWgNuZgQNGPy9Ro6OlBPwGcdkQfWC-wgv-XOupqa9plf_JnoZbvU2IE/s1600/DSC02084-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgie65N8ro2k8G2pnHxLIgiFihBAhgw7sn4PupSjWNbn38MdeB7_w9NE0iY3zeEOEcwEjP19BVvLAgq4k0EmrJWgNuZgQNGPy9Ro6OlBPwGcdkQfWC-wgv-XOupqa9plf_JnoZbvU2IE/s320/DSC02084-2.jpg" width="320" /></a>No, my love. It's not the way you turn a deaf ear to when I speak. I've realised that you do listen. You just pretend not to - What we have is a little bit of a fairytale.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">No, my love. It's not the way you don't find me witty - I've learnt that our senses of humour are different.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">And no, my darling. It's not the way you pick on my flaws - I've understood that you love me despite them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">What we have is a part of a story,</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">a taste of a slightly star crossed romance,</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">mixed in a half written sad song </span></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-style: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">written on pages with blue ink, </span></div>
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carried away in the wind. </div>
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It's beautiful, </div>
<div class="p1" style="font-style: normal;">
it's a little broken, </div>
<div class="p1" style="font-style: normal;">
but it's strong enough </div>
<div class="p1" style="font-style: normal;">
to stand on it's own.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Just like us.</i></div>
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Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-3675640125035947332012-05-15T03:32:00.000-07:002012-05-15T03:38:45.758-07:00Through the Looking Glass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl8QLTJSGzS63z-r7fMAnyEZqseq7KYDV1La4GqtTnjqfLgFp0xJUMvLsO0nQU8E5jgyAxEUAZqnRcmeqvZNthxFhKGsJnfvkPKh2AJgOq8yy4VBbcq1FmW4E3bTpIh2YmCB8Ebf77ssg/s1600/mirror_mirror_by_CSnyder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; height: 203px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 192px;"><img border="0" height="200" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl8QLTJSGzS63z-r7fMAnyEZqseq7KYDV1La4GqtTnjqfLgFp0xJUMvLsO0nQU8E5jgyAxEUAZqnRcmeqvZNthxFhKGsJnfvkPKh2AJgOq8yy4VBbcq1FmW4E3bTpIh2YmCB8Ebf77ssg/s200/mirror_mirror_by_CSnyder.jpg" width="190" /></a> </div>
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There is a boy living in my mirror. Not any normal Boy of course. Normal Boys don't do things like play in the mud or get perfect scores on tests or live in mirrors. He's a strange, beautiful, enchanting boy. The type of boy who is found in a fairy tale. When he laughs it's as if the world laughs with him. </div>
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No one else seems to see the boy. My mother’s too busy. My father, don’t see him often. The other kids believe such a strange boy like him could ever be anything but, strange. It's like I'm the only one who cares at all. I wish they would see how amazing he really is. The Boy is extremely talented. He gets straight A's and can play three instruments. Algebra is a piece of cake and he reads Keats and Gibran for fun. No one cares about that either.</div>
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</div>
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"Hey Dad! He can spell cytoplasm!"</div>
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"That's nice."<br />
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<br /></div>
"Look, he wrote a poem Mom!"<br />
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<br /></div>
"um hmm."<br />
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<br /></div>
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No one will listen. The boy is lonely because I'm his only friend. I told him that it doesn't matter because the other people aren't worthy of being his friends. He's still sad. He never smiles any more. I wish he would.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Boy isn't the same any more. He won’t talk to me or anyone else. He's stopped studying or being creative. It's not worth the trouble if no one notices. All his stories and poems have been thrown away. Shakespeare was flung into the fire. His grades have gone downhill. The instruments have corroded away.<br />
<br /></div>
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He's started being sarcastic and uncaring. He makes fun of the kids that were like the old mirror Boy. Everyone loves him now. Everyone but me. I hate the Boy in the mirror. He's ugly and stupid with his group of superficial "friends." He's not worth being my friend anymore. Too bad I'm stuck with him, because every time I look in the mirror he's there. Staring back at me. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I broke the mirror today. He's still there.</div>
<br />
---------<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>To the Looking-Glass world it was Alice that said</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>"I've a sceptre in hand, I've a crown on my head.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>Let the Looking-Glass creatures, whatever they be</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>Come dine with the Red Queen, the White Queen and Me!"</em><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-31206220545705987802011-05-01T13:56:00.000-07:002011-05-01T14:03:11.053-07:00Forever Yours<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVzgmVk9kSFDC2gtOcDzjLHauhlvd_EtvRtEhUFwzelSjzqfuQgCk5qwNPnLCB587O5a3ZIAw7Znb2LJF2QCXvrhjk88J2LOhsfStmUmHCaN6S4-BqB-m0GQqEFNGs-Qo1rZEqVSbz44/s1600/Forever_Yours____by_VisionPhotography.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 145px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVzgmVk9kSFDC2gtOcDzjLHauhlvd_EtvRtEhUFwzelSjzqfuQgCk5qwNPnLCB587O5a3ZIAw7Znb2LJF2QCXvrhjk88J2LOhsfStmUmHCaN6S4-BqB-m0GQqEFNGs-Qo1rZEqVSbz44/s200/Forever_Yours____by_VisionPhotography.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601856169399353234" /></a><div>"Have you ever believed in forever?" I knew it was an odd question to ask, but I couldn't stop myself as the words spilt from my lips faster then the amber liquid did into her wine glass. I looked at her as she took a few sips of the drink pausing only to light a cigarette.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I did once. It was a long time ago though." She blew out a puff of smoke into my face with a smirk on her lips, her eyes half lidded. I could clearly see the black eyeliner sitting just above her eye lashes.</div><div><br /></div><div>She looked beautiful, I noted, as the smoke dissipated in the air. Her smirk was mysterious and her eyes the deepest black I had ever seen, framed by thick lush lashes.</div><div><br /></div><div>But beneath the surface; beneath the amusement was an emotion I knew too well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sadness.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What happened?" I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>She took another drag of smoke and slowly let it out again, closing her eyes briefly. She looked peacefuly asleep for a moment, but when she opened her eyes again, I saw the tears.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It ended."</div><div><br /></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-84218254636714834202010-12-18T03:54:00.001-08:002010-12-18T04:10:33.485-08:00Blurring Reality<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIBe2e8JyCM4vQr8FiuZNq-NqJs8CL6DXCJ5Jy7uvsdo9lpdiKpcsTDP0DS2r8I2ibKXPoZkhis_w-qD90bOqMLuFcauk_dDfQ_0tEUt5tlol8ERNyEk83GMZqHH2lMqUghVU-sdpNos/s1600/___HOPE_II____by_sweetyblood.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIBe2e8JyCM4vQr8FiuZNq-NqJs8CL6DXCJ5Jy7uvsdo9lpdiKpcsTDP0DS2r8I2ibKXPoZkhis_w-qD90bOqMLuFcauk_dDfQ_0tEUt5tlol8ERNyEk83GMZqHH2lMqUghVU-sdpNos/s320/___HOPE_II____by_sweetyblood.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551990442155600562" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The boy had just finished reading another article on the economic policies of the government. It was already past 2 am on a cold foggy December night when he realised how cold he was. He tossed aside the paper and snug back to his bed for warmth and a good night sleep.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Hey are you deaf..? look at me Dammit when I am talking to you" he yelled. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The guy got up from his chair and walked away on the street. The boy was thoroughly confused. There was a sea of humanity around him and yet no one gave a second look towards the boy. Everyone was walking nonchalantly as if he was just thin air. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">He started walking away baffled, when he saw a queer old woman staring at him. She was really old, judging by the wrinkles on her face and the way she leaned her upper body on her walking stick. And yet there was a certain calmness to her demeanor. A faint smile appeared on her face.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Old woman, can you see me?"<span> </span>He asked</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">She nodded. He was a tad relieved to know that at least she could see him.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"What is meaning of this?" he asked waving his hands around him</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">She didn't reply for quite some time.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Are you ready?" She said calmly in a low voice.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Ready? what do you mean ready?" he said agitatedly. He was expecting much more from her. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Ready for what?" he said annoyed</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">She smiled enigmatically and said, " Ready for the next journey."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">It then hit him hard on. "Do you mean I am dead?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The old woman smiled her enigmatic smile again and said, " You have time to say goodbye to just one person, other than your family."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The boy nodded in understanding. As he did he found himself in an open white coloured void. As he started thinking of that one person, his ex-girlfriend appeared before him.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">He finally knew what he had to do. He knew he had to tell her that he still loved her. He was glad he had an opportunity to tell her how wrong he was. As he tried to take a step towards her, he realised he couldn't move no matter how hard he tried. To his horror, her image started fading away. He tried to look around for the old woman for an explanation. But all he could see was bright white light in his eyes with its intensity increasing. He blinked and opened his eyes to see the sunlight streaming through the window shades on his face.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The boy sat up with a start. How glad he was to be back to the reality. He came to a conclusion that the dream was an indication to something important. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">He decided to get back with his ex girlfriend and make up for the lost time and feelings. He grabbed his phone and dialed her cell.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Hello"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Hey it's me" he said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"oh it's you" she said with a hint of dryness. "Listen I am with someone, I'll have to call you later."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"No problem" he said, " I just wanted to tell you something but that's ok, we can talk later yeah?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Um yeah sure"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Btw, who are you with?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Look I really need to go"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"yes I get that, but just out of curiosity, who are you out with?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">"Listen this is really getting weird ok. I don't want to talk to you now. I am hanging up."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">beep...beep...beep</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The boy didn't know if to scream or to weep.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">He got out of bed and walked over to the washbasin. He splashed cold water on his face.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">He had finally woken up from his <i> Dream to Reality.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-16880398560900027302010-11-01T23:21:00.001-07:002010-11-02T00:26:57.117-07:00The Rose<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYO7etfu3SG5Geu5jED87pmUIRSd1s6CoYqxhjhFkK3A5w5Q8JebXgxD-DNKBtFjCJ1E-OWnjhzyFww6G5ZxJWJOwEFS4kESdNbTX2lPJVuxeEEWm3L-dHwoogm8ULTT9u3o5SKf29goo/s1600/Lonely_Rose_by_Demonmiss27.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYO7etfu3SG5Geu5jED87pmUIRSd1s6CoYqxhjhFkK3A5w5Q8JebXgxD-DNKBtFjCJ1E-OWnjhzyFww6G5ZxJWJOwEFS4kESdNbTX2lPJVuxeEEWm3L-dHwoogm8ULTT9u3o5SKf29goo/s320/Lonely_Rose_by_Demonmiss27.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534839302088250690" /></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYO7etfu3SG5Geu5jED87pmUIRSd1s6CoYqxhjhFkK3A5w5Q8JebXgxD-DNKBtFjCJ1E-OWnjhzyFww6G5ZxJWJOwEFS4kESdNbTX2lPJVuxeEEWm3L-dHwoogm8ULTT9u3o5SKf29goo/s1600/Lonely_Rose_by_Demonmiss27.jpg"></a><div><div>I once saw a lonely Woman sitting in a park, the winter afternoon sun playing softly across her features. Looking at her lifeless face, I felt bad for her. I wanted her to feel better. So I went to her and offered her a rose. She looked at the rose, then at me and asked me why?</div><div><br /></div><div>"Because you seemed lonely" i said smiling.</div><div><br /></div><div>She took the rose and said "thank you for noticing." I could see her lips curving at the corners. She looked pretty when she smiled.</div><div><br /></div><div>"But if you wanted to give me something why couldn’t you give me a friend?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"A Friend?" I asked, thoughtfully. "Is that as precious as a rose?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"A Friend" she said "Is like hundred roses everyday" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Then i will give you a friend!" I said smiling. "Where can i find one..?"</div><div><br /></div><div>She laughed. "It can very well be you." Then she smiled "If you want"</div><div><br /></div><div>And since that day, i gave her more roses than anyone could ever count. And she gave me back even more.</div><div><br /></div><div>What about you? How many roses have you given..?</div><div><br /></div><div>------------------------------------</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Morning comes and morning goes with no regret </span></i></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span">And evening brings the memories I can't forget<br />Empty rooms that echo as I climb the stairs<br />And empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs </span></i></span><div> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"> ~ Don McLean</span></i></span></div></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-43859062160037644412010-02-20T00:23:00.000-08:002011-01-07T02:59:07.262-08:00The flame who loved<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqtgFFOe071QAKf-hPsbMj6UTFc2lotZQkLnucK8-EHkODsIdMx7DzQSKVCVRVYYqhkTF8KeB7FClarfn3Hu32RnWiS5U6n9KMXLtLFzoDtIrfW8Eybna_g-93UCJa1q_xY2LqiB-QME/s1600-h/flame_by_krolikova.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqtgFFOe071QAKf-hPsbMj6UTFc2lotZQkLnucK8-EHkODsIdMx7DzQSKVCVRVYYqhkTF8KeB7FClarfn3Hu32RnWiS5U6n9KMXLtLFzoDtIrfW8Eybna_g-93UCJa1q_xY2LqiB-QME/s320/flame_by_krolikova.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440239375009051794" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: left;">The couple sat and ate as the piano man played. The candle sat on the table and the flame danced to the music of the piano, but they paid it no attention. She was born to dance and dance she did. She swayed in the breeze, stretched to tippy toes and crouched to her feet, but they paid it no attention. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />His eyes fell upon the flame with an intense gaze and she fell in love. His eyes reflected her light and sparkled with her passion. His eyes strayed and she danced only for him. The couple spoke and ate and laughed for an hour but soon grew weary. The flame knew this would be her last chance to act. She backed to the edge of her candle and leapt toward him. She landed on his coat and hugged him tightly and crackled words of love to him.<br /><br />He jumped up in a fright and threw his water onto her. She cried out in a vicious hiss and her life ended in a puff of smoke. The couple paid the waiter and left.<br /><br />The waiter saw an unlit candle on a table and lit it for the next couple and the flame danced to the music of the piano.<span style="font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">----------</p>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-33221872178527750432010-01-03T05:33:00.000-08:002010-01-04T01:04:33.018-08:00Paper Thoughts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQgxX9i4QG-X0AOodBzqDQYytgp95CndWqRF5t6xgeL0Mnz0hQVP-VZYvBGZrcKAeeOpqgbTeUHlU7HLBaLkXhOX8bt9sDiiFROMLqsG5EGKTYBL_WBpUAe020HTOBZ71VIdHP6UO0AA/s1600-h/Paper_thoughts_by_juliadavis.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQgxX9i4QG-X0AOodBzqDQYytgp95CndWqRF5t6xgeL0Mnz0hQVP-VZYvBGZrcKAeeOpqgbTeUHlU7HLBaLkXhOX8bt9sDiiFROMLqsG5EGKTYBL_WBpUAe020HTOBZ71VIdHP6UO0AA/s200/Paper_thoughts_by_juliadavis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422508304508539618" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 16.8pt"><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;color:#222222;">I’m writing down my thoughts on paper planes, before letting them go and dropping them one by one into the sky. As they fall through the air, they'll land among the clouds and send ripples through heaven, and I’ll smile because I know that someone will pick up my thoughts eventually.<br /><br />I’ll look at that ocean of a sky and wait until my planes disappear into the horizon, and I’ll wait and wait and wait until I see that someone perhaps has picked them up and read them, and decided to send one back. I’ll pick up that fragile sheet of paper, and read their thoughts, those beautiful things which humans dream up, and I'll smile.<br /><br />Then I’ll place that plane back into the sky and watch as it floats off to join the others.<br />Maybe one day, my planes will come back to me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 16.8pt"><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;color:#222222;">----------------------------------</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 16.8pt"><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";font-family:";color:#222222;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Inspired by Serendipitous conversations with long lost Friend</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 16.8pt"><span style="font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-Times New Roman";font-family:";color:#222222;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></i></span></p>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-11932851528731070922009-12-27T22:48:00.000-08:002010-01-03T05:53:00.272-08:00Bookends Theme<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVPcbT7a2WvDuVlAXQ3IlrtxtdYVkQwT_V8RKv_8yAmKbvx86ELjMmln6ueuMwJgV717oqQnqXREmQL1X4v1P9YL6MJY6TRoDGAx8VIE_j8B1iLwl4zWboecJ9eDmzSaEwsArE8Q1bms/s1600-h/Begin_to_Hope_by_iNeedChemicalX.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVPcbT7a2WvDuVlAXQ3IlrtxtdYVkQwT_V8RKv_8yAmKbvx86ELjMmln6ueuMwJgV717oqQnqXREmQL1X4v1P9YL6MJY6TRoDGAx8VIE_j8B1iLwl4zWboecJ9eDmzSaEwsArE8Q1bms/s200/Begin_to_Hope_by_iNeedChemicalX.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422511067710894322" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;color:#222222;"><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was walking in the park one day.<br />I saw an old man sitting on the bench with the worst frown I have ever seen.<br /><br />I was feeling pretty good and decided to greet him "Good Morning.".<br /><br />There was no reply, but as I decided to leave, he started to mumble.<br /><br />I was about to dash off when it hit me that the old man might be senile,<br />But his words suddenly sunk in, and I silently listened to him talk.<br />Perhaps just to himself.<br /><br />"I hate children.<br />Irresponsible, time wasting, ungrateful idiots<br />When will they grow up and see that the world isn't such a great place.<br /><br />Why do you waste your time with hopes and dreams,<br />That you soon learn was all false hopes.<br />Once society has you within its grasps,<br />You'll see that this stupid world isn't as fun as your little childish adventures.<br /><br />Why don't you grow up and stop questioning what had been and always will be.<br />Why do you conjure up wonderful dreams, that will only haunt you when they break.<br /><br />Why don't you see that love was an illusion, love is a waste of time.<br />You grow so close, for them only to leave you behind.<br />The happiness that you seek, is as equal as the disappointment that the world serves you.<br /><br />Little children who do not know their bounds, who do not understand their limitations in life.<br />Such idiots, hurting themselves more as they try to struggle, try to change.<br /><br />Their parents work for them until their body gets worn out and wary,<br />Yet those naïve imbeciles try to pay them back, not out of gratitude, but out of guilt.<br />Throwing away what they truly give you, your freedom, not the material inheritance.<br /><br />I hate that child…<br /><br />I hate that child who was I. An old school dreamer.<br /><br />The myself, that I have forgotten long ago."<br /><br />After all these years, I never understood what he meant.<br />I just thought he had a cruel mind to justify the world as a sad place.<br /><br />But then one day, I found myself walking by the same park.<br /><br />The old man wasn't there anymore since many a years had passed.<br /><br />I sat down the same bench he sat on, and that same frown, found its way to the corners of my mouth.</span><span style="color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">How Very ironic...</span></p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: 16.8pt"><span style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">---------------------------------<br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;color:#545559;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i></i></span></span></span></p><span style="color:#222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;color:#545559;"><i><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#404040;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#545559;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal;font-size:13px;"></span></span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#404040;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#545559;"><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;color:#545559;">Time it was, and what a time it was, it was<br />A time of innocence, a time of confidences<br />Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph<br />Preserve your memories; They're all that's left you.</span><span style="color:#545559;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;color:#545559;">-</span></i><i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;color:#404040;">Simon And Garfunkel (Bookends Theme)</span><span style="color:#545559;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p></span></span><p></p></i></span></span>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-57085733490194907772009-06-17T03:14:00.000-07:002009-06-21T11:16:43.372-07:00From The Window<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtBCfZl-UkxGHBDLDjsGY31LmyCQ7NWu5T75N3RKxzY8JoDk3c7_xnwEuSX6ZpGSFvdhXKBguLnJAx6OQeFCph9fe8cqd5hzvteuZa4VKAth1jbUoOhz8p4wy6RZ2JhQ7jTmRuxSylZk/s1600-h/Her_Window_by_littlemewhatever.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihtBCfZl-UkxGHBDLDjsGY31LmyCQ7NWu5T75N3RKxzY8JoDk3c7_xnwEuSX6ZpGSFvdhXKBguLnJAx6OQeFCph9fe8cqd5hzvteuZa4VKAth1jbUoOhz8p4wy6RZ2JhQ7jTmRuxSylZk/s320/Her_Window_by_littlemewhatever.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348239276270414370" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><b>From The Window</b></span></span><br /><br />One Beautiful Autumn Evening, I saw that girl by the window, again.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />Light was glowing softly from behind her. I thought she looked very pretty.<br /><br />There were rumors about her. Bad rumors. My nanna told me she is a gold digger. But someone with her size surely can't be able to dig deep into the ground. Nanna told me it was just an expression. That people like her sell their souls to the devil for a few pounds of gold. That they are nothing but whores. I asked her what is a whore, but she shied away from answering me. And so I kept quiet. Nanna sometimes does that, refusing to ask some questions I posed. But I never pressed on.<br /><br />Every morning I walk past that big house on the way to school. Usually, it will be empty. But I did that still because I get to see her from that window. She always looked at the sky, and I thought sometimes she is dreaming. She never looked below, so I took the chance to glimpse at her whenever I can. Yes, she is indeed very pretty. Sometimes, she made me wish I can draw well, so that I can capture her face looking so quietly up the sky... I thought there was no one as beautiful as her.<br /><br />Never mind what a whore is. I was pretty sure nanna refused to answer me because it was a bad word. But the girl looked nothing like that, or anything bad for that matter. There was something about her that made my eyes melt everytime I looked at her.<br /><br />The man came by that window, and gently touched her shoulder. She smiled for the first time, and my heart almost skipped a beat. Nanna said the man was an old fool, an old, lecherous fox. I did not understand. She used to like Mr. Castle. Now all she did was speak badly of him. I don't even try to ask her what was lecherous. Mr. Castle gave me sweets everytime I met him, and we promised to keep it a secret from nanna. I thought he was a very kind man. He reminds me of Grandpapa, with the smell of tobacco and peppermint. He was almost 60 years old, nanna said. But sometimes he hardly looks like it at all, because whenever his eyes smile, they remind me of Charlie, my best friend, who always got us into trouble.<br /><br />Mr. Castle saw me from the streets and waved. The girl waved too, and it made me feel very light at feet. Then they left the window. I thought Mr. Castle and his new bride were perfect for each other.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />That Beautiful autumn evening, I saw that girl by the window, for the last time.</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>------------------------------------------------</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(64, 64, 64); line-height: 15px; font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>My thoughts are scattered and they're cloudy,<br />They have no borders, no boundaries.<br />They echo and they swell<br />From Tolstoy to Tinker Bell.<br />Down from Berkeley to Carmel.<br />Got some pictures in my pocket and a lot of time to kill. </i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:100%;color:#404040;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 15px;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i> </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>- Simon And Garfunkel (Cloudy)</i></span></span></span></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-5077122742012607172008-08-15T10:23:00.001-07:002008-08-16T00:01:51.399-07:00Lightning Bug<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvgB0tuGFsV02zAK2KVvgotixOGfc9zEsqtke6qMm_dIbMgrijN0sDzJ0Z6zPen6qNRogkZ_MMaFDozBy3Ct1nWjeGMaJwgWCPyE7tio6wKQ9GIxP2XVEJlNlvXRl6BZHK-gPhyMwRT5w/s1600-h/Follow____by_Jennbawa.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvgB0tuGFsV02zAK2KVvgotixOGfc9zEsqtke6qMm_dIbMgrijN0sDzJ0Z6zPen6qNRogkZ_MMaFDozBy3Ct1nWjeGMaJwgWCPyE7tio6wKQ9GIxP2XVEJlNlvXRl6BZHK-gPhyMwRT5w/s320/Follow____by_Jennbawa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235006473391731986" /></a><br /><br />Walking through a field of grass that was knee high, The little girl beside him finally became too eager, to reach the sight just ahead of them, to follow at his slow pace.<br /><br />She hurried ahead into the darkness, and before long she was in the midst of a million tiny lights that flickered and pulsed as they drifted from place to place.<br />Reaching out, she snatched one of the lights in mid-flight. She peered into her cupped hands and a look of Wonderment covered her face when she saw what she had caught.<br /><br />"A lightning bug!" she exclaimed as she ran back to him, Treasure in hand. She had never seen them before. <br /><br />"It's so tiny... How did it swallow the lightning?" She looked up and asked him. <br /><br />The old man smiled and said " I don't know my dear, but it goes to show that You can do great things if you try hard enough, Even if you're small."<br /><br />She opened her hands and allowed the little bug to fly away into the night. They stayed there and watched them dance until she fell asleep in his lap.<br /><br />He kissed her forehead. "Good night, my little lightning bug."Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-56065157714437138822008-08-15T10:05:00.000-07:002010-01-03T23:31:56.113-08:00A Perfect Moment<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9otHGO_UqSMfc5LsSnuNc3bt1_ppQO8roMgoUy8WuClFXu_g_n5I0Zrg4NVB6_-dw-DXvehS0279KkojRLxAf5rQIkIa_ksvu9xlX4M12BY-40m-C7vgExCaVw6PbzbUpIxu2n017OQ/s1600-h/Freedom_by_kalysto.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9otHGO_UqSMfc5LsSnuNc3bt1_ppQO8roMgoUy8WuClFXu_g_n5I0Zrg4NVB6_-dw-DXvehS0279KkojRLxAf5rQIkIa_ksvu9xlX4M12BY-40m-C7vgExCaVw6PbzbUpIxu2n017OQ/s320/Freedom_by_kalysto.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234794182844088674" /></a><br />Everything is calm and tranquil, euphony of the chimes is softly floating in the air. The boy sits contented for once, nothing worth worrying over in the back of his head. His bed is soft, his lap is warm. He reads contently, a prefect story. The rain falls gently as the clouds start descending into the valley. His eyes close and he thinks of this moment to engrave it in his mind forever. His couldn't help but smile softly and admit for once the world seems right.Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-57245467383385310362008-06-06T07:18:00.000-07:002008-06-17T13:00:14.266-07:00What Wonderful Feels Like<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LdqfSATegge0ZVrozSNx2T1dBxDjo4bHpr6fj8Ei7WZTQNRsVeuFm1YaRRz69UX94tK8hN2jxqW-sOLv8ZEdC4SF459WZSSj8zTr18ebKesBxe4i22TV5ZrGR5QupFCJleCSfM8ejNo/s1600-h/Serendipity_by_dinmeleth2004.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LdqfSATegge0ZVrozSNx2T1dBxDjo4bHpr6fj8Ei7WZTQNRsVeuFm1YaRRz69UX94tK8hN2jxqW-sOLv8ZEdC4SF459WZSSj8zTr18ebKesBxe4i22TV5ZrGR5QupFCJleCSfM8ejNo/s320/Serendipity_by_dinmeleth2004.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208779062092208066" /></a><br /><br />The small ripples from the river were soothingly crashing on the shore and the stars and moon were shining brightly while a boy and a girl strolled, hand in hand, down the cool, rocky shore. A light breeze ruffled their hair and clothes, but the two were oblivious to the mild disturbance. The walk was silent, not consumed by the chatter and giggles that usually filled their meetings. It was in no way an awkward silence for it was filled with mutual understanding and serenity; it was perfect. The fresh mountain air swirled around them in a warm embrace as they basked in the peacefulness of this summer night, full of beauty and endless possibilities.<br /> <br />Slowly, the young boy slowed to a halt and the girl turned to him with a curious expression playing on her soft features. The boy just smiled, with eyes sparkling, at the girl before him. Her wavy long hair blew in the wind and her almond eyes shone in the moonlight. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect evening. The girl tried to speak, but was soon silenced as her companion cupped her face and leaned in, gently bringing his lips to hers. Her body tingled as her senses welcomed the new found warmth of this first kiss. The boy gradually pulled his face away and a shy smile tugged at the corners of the girl’s lips as they gazed into each other’s eyes. The boy broke out into a huge grin and he took hold of her hand once again as they resumed their silent walk down the soft, gravel patch, thinking about how wonderful life had become.<br /><br />---<br /><br />The air was filled with the scents of burgers and cotton candies, and the sounds of children laughing and playing carnival games. A pair of young lovers walked through the crowd, smiling and laughing. They went from booth to booth and went on roller coaster after roller coaster, having the time of their lives. As they were walking, the girl squealed happily at the sight of a large, stuffed teddy bear hanging from the tent of a throwing game. The boy smiled as he saw her entire face light up, and told her that he would win it for her. She protested, saying that he didn't have to, but he patted her cheek and told her that he would do anything for her. A small blush rose to her cheeks, and her smile grew even more. The young boy paid and received three balls to try and knock down the bottles, but he couldn't knock them all down.<br /><br />Despite the girl's protests, he bought another round and tried again, but he still failed to knock down all of the bottles. After five rounds of missed bottles, he finally won the girl the teddy bear, and the smile on her face and glint in her eyes made it all worth it. She lovingly hugged him, and then ruffled his curly black hair, telling him how much she loved him. The girl adored the teddy bear, and would not let it go for the rest of the evening. It was a constant reminder of how lucky she was to have found this wonderful boy, and her smile was a constant reminder to said boy of how lucky he was to have found such a wonderful girl. Sadly, the night came to an end, but it left them both thinking about how wonderful life had become.<br /><br />---<br /><br />The afternoon sun was shining through the closed blinds of a young girl’s bedroom where she lay wrapped up in blankets, temperature blazing. She was miserable, sitting up there all alone with only the comfort of a twenty inch television screen glowing with the scenes of a trashy day-time soap opera. Suddenly she heard a soft knock on her door, announcing someone else’s presence. The girl expected it to just be her mother checking, once again, to see if she was ok. To her surprise, a head of short, messy black poked through the door way, and a young boy with sparkling brown eyes stepped through the threshold carrying a bouquet of Roses and a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup. <br /><br />A grin spread across the young girl’s pale face as she reached for the roses with a shaky hand, and the boy couldn’t help but think how beautiful she was. Her usually wavy black hair was pulled into a messy ponytail and there was no make-up on her heart-shaped face, and to him, she was the most beautiful creation that God had ever placed on this earth. The boy sat down on the floral clad bed and wrapped a loving arm around the girl’s shoulder as she sipped at the soup he had brought. They sat that way for hours just talking about everything and nothing while watching and making fun of the overly dramatic lives of the characters on the television show. All the while they were thinking about how wonderful life had become.<br /><br />---<br /><br />The rain was pouring down on this chilly evening while a young girl sat curled up on her couch, reading a book and sipping a large mug of steaming hot soup. She loved nights like these, where she could just curl up and read while the rain fell onto her roof in comfortable, mechanical pattern. She was so engrossed in her book, that she almost didn't hear the phone ringing. She got up and answered it, listening to what the voice on the other line had to say. Slowly, the color drained from her face and her palms began to sweat. <br /><br />The young girl hung up the phone and grabbed her coat, leaving the house in a numb state of mind. If one asked her later, she wouldn't be able to remember getting into the car and driving to the scene, all that she would be able to remember was the sight before her when she got there. She got out of her small car and pushed through the crowd. The rain drenched her hair and clothes as she stared blankly at the mangled car in the middle of the road, illuminated by flashing red lights. She couldn't hear the shouts of the paramedics, nor the cries of the witnesses, all she could hear was the pounding of her heart, and all she could see was the hardly recognizable face of a young boy.<br /><br />His messy black hair was caked in blood, and his once sparkling eyes were closed- forever? The police officer asked her if this was the right boy, and all of the sudden the freight train of reality hit her head on. Her legs gave out and she fell to her knees. Tears streamed down her face, the salty drops mixing with the rain. She tried to stifle the sobs that shook her petite frame, not wanting to believe the truth. She couldn't take her eyes off of his face. That beautiful face that had kissed her that night while they walked down the riverside, that embarrassed himself just to win her a silly teddy bear, and that brought her soup and comforted her while she was sick. She thought of how his brown eyes always lit up when he saw her and how he made her feel so special and happy. What now? The police officer helped her off the ground, sadness spreading across his features, but the girl didn't notice, all she could think about was how horrible life had become; how quickly it had changed and she found herself trying to remember what wonderful had felt like.Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-67488315224354627182008-03-12T19:41:00.000-07:002008-03-12T19:59:44.623-07:00Hold My Hand<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXRoAB_NYtnbjPAETsN_9ZevcLDHvs2QOeb8K-QUhRUZch4PIvMBoj-pYsY66JEjjyo3n70FeaYozmsW6PrCsDnaKjJgsSIF2BkawTEmuO7GUIpxXFFSZMHfpgTerED7hMGxh6yWTV3c/s1600-h/Etienne_et_Dulciane_by_maxyme.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXRoAB_NYtnbjPAETsN_9ZevcLDHvs2QOeb8K-QUhRUZch4PIvMBoj-pYsY66JEjjyo3n70FeaYozmsW6PrCsDnaKjJgsSIF2BkawTEmuO7GUIpxXFFSZMHfpgTerED7hMGxh6yWTV3c/s320/Etienne_et_Dulciane_by_maxyme.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177055478972330994" /></a><br />The mood shouldn’t have been awkward, but it was. They were the kind of friends that only really knew each other through another friend. There wasn’t an established relationship, yet. There were established feelings, however. His hand was right next to hers on the couch. If she had more confidence, had she been a bit more daring, she would have just grabbed his hand herself. But she was the oddly shy, slightly awkward girl that only knew how to speak up after she gave herself plenty of preparation to figure out what to say. <br /><br />He was telling her a story about some friends from work, and though she nodded politely and giggled when he chuckled, she wasn’t paying much attention to anything but the small distance of their hands on the couch. His fingers were long, with his nails bitten down in the typical-guy way. The back of his palm looked a little rough from the cold winter weather. She studied her own hand: stubby fingers, wide palms, long nails with chipped purple paint on them. His hands were gorgeous, whereas hers were just as awkward as herself.<br /><br />He slouched down onto the couch a bit more. He looked comfortable, so she leaned back, as well. A friend walked into the room, doing a double-take. <br />“Oh,” she said. “I thought you had your head on his shoulder for some reason.” She laughed and walked out of the room.<br />“You could, you know,” he said in a low voice.<br />“I could what?” she asked.<br />“Lay on my shoulder. If you want, I mean. Might be better on your neck.”<br />She smiled, thinking it over. “Alright,” she said, leaning down.<br /><br />He continued on with his story, different than the previous one. She could hear his heartbeat and feel his chest rise and sink with each breath. His mouth was near her forehead, and she wished he would be cute and randomly kiss her forehead. Again, she took notice of their hands, so close to each other, even moreso now. He didn’t seem to notice, he didn’t seem to care that they were so close together. She sighed and closed her eyes, just enjoying his comforting warmth. He played with her hair. <br /><br />“Are you comfy?” he asked.<br />She lifted her head slightly and nodded. He grinned, looking like a little boy with stubble. <br />“I’m not boring you with these stories, am I?” he asked her.<br />“No, no… I enjoy hearing you speak. Your voice is really comforting,” she said.<br />“Heh, I’m glad you like it.”<br />”Please talk some more?” she asked.<br />“Always happy to give people what they want.”<br />‘Then hold my hand,’ she thought. She snuggled closer to him while he started a new story about his childhood, knowing that he wouldn’t make a move and she was much too meek to try. ‘You take what you get,’ she thought.Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-19640082885724337772008-02-18T07:57:00.000-08:002008-02-26T22:15:59.201-08:00Can you hear me?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7uSHbJdJCl61eypSADbfJkCMmPsy8k6mPoiS7fpG-9FiEu25dHV65VsTwFtEgl8Aj7aRGCD4pKhN3W1JIw0U2vNz9PN-cy_qTWGSIJUR5FU25XzU6kyAm1iCt6YqqziRlET8xv2sZwk/s1600-h/4775_by_FEROCELLO.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171538966225852242" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7uSHbJdJCl61eypSADbfJkCMmPsy8k6mPoiS7fpG-9FiEu25dHV65VsTwFtEgl8Aj7aRGCD4pKhN3W1JIw0U2vNz9PN-cy_qTWGSIJUR5FU25XzU6kyAm1iCt6YqqziRlET8xv2sZwk/s320/4775_by_FEROCELLO.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div><div>She had lost her voice at a very young age. She was attacked by strangers and in the process they ruined her vocal box. Her mother had cried when she came home all bloodied and bruised. Her mother began to weep when she opened her mouth to say something, but nothing had come out. She struggled to speak her feelings, to tell the world how she felt. She tried so hard to get her vocals back, she tried so hard to tell someone how she felt, but they didn’t know what she said. </div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>Inside her mind she could scream when she was angry. Inside her mind she could laugh when she was happy. Inside her mind she could cry when she was sad. Inside her mind she could sing along to songs when she heard their familiar tunes. Inside her mind she could speak of her deepest feelings and secrets.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>“Hey,” he said as he sat next to her on the field. She gave him a smile of acknowledgement as she watched the grass sway with the wind and the birds fly across the sky. They did this everyday, sitting on the highest point of the fields looking down at everything below them. </div><div><br /> </div><div>“Did you know today’s the last day that the birds will be here until next year?” He said as he heard them sing while passing by. She looked at him in shock and then waved to fading birds. </div><div><br /> </div><div>“Why?” she silently asked. </div><div> </div><div> <br /></div><div></div><div>“Migration, soon it’ll be to cold for the birds to survive here. So they fly off to somewhere warmer where they’ll be happier,” he said answering back the question he knew she asked. She gave him a nod of understanding and looked at the empty trees. She frowned at the quietness of the fields. He watched her eyes and read her emotions like an open book. If only she opened up a little more he could read the words she felt. She pointed to the empty field and looked at him with the frown still on her face. </div><div><br /> </div><div>“It’s empty” she silently stated. </div><div><br /> </div><div>“Yea, it is empty without the birds, but they come back every year,” he smiled. She tilted her head as questions raced through her head. Her eyes continued to stare into his in hope. Could he hear her? She pointed to the bare trees. </div><div><br /> </div><div>“It’s dull,” she silently stated again this time waiting for his answer. He stared at her with his eyebrows raised. </div><div><br /> </div><div>“I know, but the trees become dull so when winter comes everything can be white and covered in snow. It’s just as beautiful as golden and red leaves,” he said answering the statement her eyes said. She looked at him with a shocked expression. </div><div><br />“Can you hear me?” she said screaming in silence. He only smiled and nodded his head. </div><div><br /> </div><div>“Only if you tell me,” he said. She gave him a wide smile and told her stories with her eyes. </div></div></div></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-68654261623753093812008-01-28T07:05:00.000-08:002008-01-28T07:22:46.841-08:00Love Ramifications<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-KSJX3x_HLgeVW6fncv8bOrd1_-t24mwcogcgaoALruldywxnVMp-xEHNRqq0xybFK3aAbUbT1WOJDH33X_6HMk38kPxuBw1sS6m6baj4n-4YgfOBUaMaMiTrRqxjpY9HESmve9NIny0/s1600-h/Happy_Lovers_by_awwphoenix.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160544498598905922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-KSJX3x_HLgeVW6fncv8bOrd1_-t24mwcogcgaoALruldywxnVMp-xEHNRqq0xybFK3aAbUbT1WOJDH33X_6HMk38kPxuBw1sS6m6baj4n-4YgfOBUaMaMiTrRqxjpY9HESmve9NIny0/s320/Happy_Lovers_by_awwphoenix.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The complicated thing about love is letting yourself go without regrets. Letting yourself fall, in a heartbeat, to an abysm filled with uncertainty and risk not to look back.</div><div><br />The hardest part is coming out of our bubble to face the cruelty of life with nothing but our heart, and throwing every fiber of our being because we hope, we believe.<br /><br />To love someone is to be willing to burn our shields away to expose our fragility, our soul. Even if we know we could be destroyed in one second, it might be worth it at the end. Life is worth this risk.<br /><br />To love is to live, continually falling with someone else by our side hoping we can heal each other after the hit. </div><div><br /></div><div>To love is to hold on till eternity with that special someone, is to wish this is the beginning of the end.. is wishing for them to be our happy ending.<br /><br />To love is understanding some things aren't made to be understood with reason, some things can only be felt.</div><div></div><br /><div>To love is to know that everything has a purpose, even heart break.</div><div></div><br /><div>Loving is rediscovering the world, both good and evil, and being able to find the beauty hidden in both.</div><br /><div></div><div>Loving is the end of a tired search, where we can find a place that we only thought existed in our dreams.</div><div></div><br /><div>Loving you is realizing everything starts and ends with you.</div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-3476122561113075442007-12-02T12:19:00.000-08:002007-12-02T12:49:46.514-08:00Dont Walk Away<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjejvPgD-5V4_E9ITBGdqqWNdnh7AL5Ao_dPzavu1uLhIIdIgA0qTZfxW9IS3pX7hW4hV_JJMh2I4shZOIn4my1AzN2bfFRwZ3spGMJ_bdnNI_8rBgh8-mxI-lsRDCo8xOUxtd10NS25pk/s1600-r/soon_departing_by_FieldsOfButterflies.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139475810156180226" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqbkri0ED_Lst4B7V5gOIH1XNssq3EuHbQWCYyUm0mRrn99uXdvRq0G-wWP2wQ2mD615ViNr4K1ChBwv7QH9-CNJ83pCy9Y3ZzRhu0DabN1Wn5qTNUYpqLOJ4zA7t1tDvKvnjpPKlQrk/s320/soon_departing_by_FieldsOfButterflies.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizhHD_8X2Yqtv-0lR5GOZ81mLShAnihF3HYN39SsSz3zlneI-cwG_LRNtzs0_5QVq3uIriTptzW80CVQZem1KSTJ1Fg0cRrSPYDcwnSmbqq6-FUJr0hLERh9mrR5O-EdNMNaqMvAdx24/s1600-r/soon_departing_by_FieldsOfButterflies.jpg"></a><em>It's just about people liking each other but not saying until one has to leave.</em> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p></p><p>She looks at him. Today he leaves, to do new things. Today he leaves.</p><p>Without her. She has so much to tell him, but she doesn’t know how. She wants to sit down next to him, and confess exactly how she feels. She can't. He's leaving, and all she can do is sit back and watch him leave, not being able to say anything, because she's just too shy. Too worried about what he'd think. She never used to worry about what people think. Until him. She looks at him again, and smiles.</p><p>He looks at her. Over the time he's known her, he's become very attached to her. He can't believe today has come. The day he has to leave. He doesn't want to leave her. He wants to put his arm around her, and kiss her softly. He wants to make her smile when the world makes her feel down. He was instantly drawn to her and didn't know what to say. He wants to tell her everything, but now it's probably too late. He returns her look, and smiles.</p><p>They look at each other again. A loudspeaker blares. It snaps them back to reality. People go by in a whirlwind of luggage. But they are quiet. Awkwardly quiet.</p><p>He looks down at his bag, trying to decide if he should tell her how he feels or not. Bending down, to zip up a partly unzipped pocket, he decides not to. 'What difference does it make anyways?' He thought. 'I won't be back for a year, and she probably has her own plans for the future.' He sighs, and stands up. He doesn’t know where things are headed, where they'll end up, but he has to have her. He loves her.</p><p>She watches him bend down, and sees the way he gently zips up pocket. She's going to miss him so much. Thoughts start running through her head. 'What if he doesn’t come back?' a fearful voice in her head asks. Another voice, this time jealousy, asks, 'What if he finds a girl and falls for her, before I get to tell him?' She shakes her head. She has to tell him. She loves him.</p><p>They look at each other, and smile. She takes a breath, and opens her mouth to talk. She stops, and thinks...,'Do I really have a chance?' He looks at her, wondering what she was about to say. She shakes her head, and Looks down. 'It's nothing. Just my imagination playing tricks on me again.' He thinks. They make eye contact for three seconds then they blush and look away. "Uh! There's something I have to tell you...” He says. "...I don't know how you feel... or what you're going to think of me after I say this..." The loudspeaker comes to life again. "Flight IC764 to New Delhi, now boarding", it says. "Passengers are requested to go to Gate no 4"</p><p>He sighs. Just when he was going to tell her everything. The way she looked at him, was it just a look, or more? It felt as if she could see his very soul. She looks at him, and says, "What were you going to say?" "Never mind... err. Never mind.” was his reply. He looks at her and smiles. She looks at her feet, shyly. "Alright then...I got to be going...Cheerio! ", He says. She looks up, and says, "Okay...take care of yourself. Don't be getting into any trouble up there okay?" He nods, and starts to walk away. She looks down again, and then makes a decision. "Hey, wait!” she calls. He turns around. She looks up, and goes over to him. She looks into his dark brown eyes, and smiles. In a soft voice, almost like a whisper, she says, "I don't know what you were going to say, but I'm going to miss you." She kisses him softly on the lips. Before he could say anything, she was gone.<br /></p><div><br /><br /></div><div></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-30527317106461991162007-11-02T13:29:00.001-07:002007-11-05T19:57:52.576-08:00Glass<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihBfp3FVzxkGbMvlNyWn-fF2zMC1byiqtT8Z60YJyy-K7c61NKs9VDoOfeOnuqWKiGgv4iGiv-OpawC7mZ3ncAUJFcm3whW-B7XxBiV6u6bFAV-Hc7Uqbmx1Sf4byY1MJJhV3OTcKwTws/s1600-h/more_shattered_dreams__by_birdie94.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128343455246503442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihBfp3FVzxkGbMvlNyWn-fF2zMC1byiqtT8Z60YJyy-K7c61NKs9VDoOfeOnuqWKiGgv4iGiv-OpawC7mZ3ncAUJFcm3whW-B7XxBiV6u6bFAV-Hc7Uqbmx1Sf4byY1MJJhV3OTcKwTws/s400/more_shattered_dreams__by_birdie94.jpg" border="0" /></a><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I see them everywhere in shards...who picks up the pieces once they're broken?</em><br /><br /><br /><br />Have you ever heard the story of the little girl and the old lady?<br /><br /><br /><div><p></p><p></p><p>Briefly, one evening walking home, along the river, the little girl meets the old lady sitting alone. The girl goes and sits with her for a while. The girl compares the shape of her heart to that of the old lady. The old lady’s heart is scarred and tattered; the old lady tells the little girl that it’s so because of the love and experiences she had gone through in her life. In the end, the little girl tore a piece of her own heart and stuffed the hole produced with a piece of the old lady’s heart. Wonderful story, But the old lady forgot to tell the little girl about the pain and the suffering that came together… </p><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p>…He walks slowly along the winding cliff road and through the torrential rain. The only thing separating him from the drop down to the cliff is the flimsy metal erected along the edge. His iPod was playing songs about the heart, making him feel even more painful. The phrase “like a knife stabbing” couldn’t be more accurate in describing it. Clutching his chest, he looks down at the place where his hand gripped, only to see a spot of red slowly growing bigger and bigger on his white shirt. It didn’t take long before a hole forms in the centre of his chest. Out drops his heart, except it isn’t the bloody pumping flesh and blood variety. This heart was made of glass and it’s cracked; split into several pieces. Within each piece, a reflection of different person can be seen, but he can’t make out who is who. All he could do instead is cry as he sees each of them being reflected in the glass. Slowly, he tilts his hand and lets the glass heart slip, as tears stream down his cheeks…</p><p></p><p></p><p><br />…the car didn’t see the lone figure standing in front of it. The roaring of the engine could be heard together with what seemed like a wail of despair. The flimsy metal flings out as he goes airborne… </p><p></p><p></p><p><br />…the glass of water slips from her hand, shattering into numerous pieces on the ground. Feelings of guilt, sadness, and loss sweep over her. A single tear drop forms at the corner of her eye. Wiping the tear away and shrugging the momentary feelings, she crawls back to the bed. She will wake up early the next day, sweep the broken glass and throw it into the dustbin. It is, after all, just <em>glass<strong>.</strong></em><br /><br /></p><br /><br /><div></div></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-27819979883097159612007-10-16T12:06:00.000-07:002010-01-03T23:33:22.168-08:00Personal Ad<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1t-mkCER5KQdmMViXL-92-vggMNo6GVmQLMySmM2W0ifD1LOJM-_lzLxnW9X3XpH9CqUrc5Ra7y8ijV5AndDGKtLAJzCo9CThkGvMHJwEllhr2ie-VnTi0pc72slVMJKM8hAycuyyYOc/s1600-h/___shoot_me____by_ggokhann.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122600677514715650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1t-mkCER5KQdmMViXL-92-vggMNo6GVmQLMySmM2W0ifD1LOJM-_lzLxnW9X3XpH9CqUrc5Ra7y8ijV5AndDGKtLAJzCo9CThkGvMHJwEllhr2ie-VnTi0pc72slVMJKM8hAycuyyYOc/s320/___shoot_me____by_ggokhann.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>Gender: Male</div><div>Age: 22</div><div>Ethnicity: Other</div><div>Religion: No comments.</div><br /><div>I enjoy long walks in any weather, with company or without. Beaches will do. I can swim, but I don't swim well. I am an expert drowner too, though.<br /><br />I am physically active in intervals: I go through periods of my life where I can't be bothered to maintain my health, but I suffer from an inability to gain weight, so people think I'm always fit or anorexic.<br /><br />I'm fairly interesting one on one, but place me in a group of strangers and I fade into the background.<br /><br /></div><div>I do enjoy dancing and going out, But I'd rather sit at home and have a conversation with you. I will, however, on occasion, be known to give in to the charms of a female.<br /><br /></div><div>I am simultaneously egotistical and unconfident, which means I'll be too stubborn to take your advice, but I'll depend on you to make me feel needed.<br /><br />I hide my sensitivity and compassion by appearing to be abhorrently apathetic.<br /></div><div><br />I lose interest easily unless I am continuously challenged.<br /><br /></div><div>I am quite hygienic for a male. Not obsessively compulsively so, mind you. Excuse me while I wash my hands.<br /><br /></div><div>Despite my impeccable hygiene and lack of religion, I often practice anti-tidying beliefs.<br /><br />I can be moodier than moody females during PMS. On an unrelated note, I am also considering a career as a geek.<br /><br />I am a terrible lover. Just horrendous. Okay, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration; the way I see it, if you expect the worst, any small romantic gesture I make will be that much more appreciated.<br /><br />I don't have any strange fetishes, but I'll try anything twice. Contrary to what you may hear, I don't have a foot fetish; I simply appreciate the way some feet look.<br /><br />I can be shallow, but for the most part I don't care what you look like as long as you're a real female and you know how to take care of yourself.</div><br /><div></div><div></div><div>I don't believe in physical or emotional abuse, but I do appreciate a woman who can punch me squarely in the face and expect me to retaliate. </div><div> </div><div><br />I don't try to be controlling, but I have been known to implement psychological control measures; if you ever find me resorting to such measures, I insist that you kick me swiftly in the testicles until I stop. I do, however, suggest that you cease all kicking at the first sign of blood.<br /><br /></div><div>I have a tendency to push people away, no matter how close I want to be to them. I may even disappear for weeks. I always come back, though.<br /><br />I am not afraid of insects; I simply do not enjoy them in my personal space. </div><br /><div>You must like bunnies *narrows eyes*</div><br /><div>If you use words like "inexorable" or "errant" in proper context during conversation, I'll probably fall in love with you.<br /><br />If interested, please contact me at +91-9971-152951</div><br /><div></div><div>If severely uninterested to the point of murderous rage, please do not find my address and hurt me. </div></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-36392814813308590482007-09-05T10:35:00.000-07:002007-09-05T10:54:00.625-07:00A Belgium Tale<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEF4NIjty9dhLww6Q1lEddmh_z3vo4UHAU7X4-7sSqBg5jdIM8pkiUt9ASheEy7J0PR-XGbX5CP1PB9JJ1Gb_Gj64kU-5UWxmD6PSaGTm7yWU7t_ZeHT8VO2XOAVx4MXDxhIb8Dif0Bpc/s1600-h/Unwritten_Tale_by_ThisYearsGirl.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106779701151293698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEF4NIjty9dhLww6Q1lEddmh_z3vo4UHAU7X4-7sSqBg5jdIM8pkiUt9ASheEy7J0PR-XGbX5CP1PB9JJ1Gb_Gj64kU-5UWxmD6PSaGTm7yWU7t_ZeHT8VO2XOAVx4MXDxhIb8Dif0Bpc/s320/Unwritten_Tale_by_ThisYearsGirl.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br />I don’t exactly remember where I have heard this fairytale, I think it was my granny or perhaps it was my mother. I’d sit in awe as I listened intently, of how Belgium used to be long ago. But this is a story about true love and fantasy. </div><br /><div><br />Centuries before now, every night at twelve, a girl and a boy would meet on the old cobblestone bridge overlooking the lake. She would sit on the stones, legs tucked under a long, crimson dress, hair tied back away from a pale face, showing off her defined features. Her tapering fingers would fiddle with a golden pendant she wore around her neck until her prince would arrive.<br /><br />He’d stand on the cobbles beside her, blue eyes watching his ashen beauty stand to embrace him. Each night he would plant a gentle kiss on her left cheek, before walking hand in hand across the bridge. At the time when the town slept, the pair would run through the lanes and past the little houses. Just to feel the night breeze rush past them, and the moonlight caressing their skin so softly, it was perfect.<br /><br />Eventually, they would slow down and walk calmly down one street lined with trees. It felt never-ending, that’s what they loved most about it. When it really did end, he would produce a shimmering apple from his robe and place it in her cupped hands, awaiting the favour. Hidden by the shadows of the church courtyard, he would kiss her more passionately, until their time to part once again loomed.<br /><br />It was a beautiful romance. However, all things turn sour eventually. The young prince’s brother adored the beauty of the pale girl, and craved her touch for himself. One night he decided to poison the apple his brother took as a gift each night. If the girl could not be his, she could not belong to anyone.<br /><br />The lovers felt the rain patter on their flesh that night. As their clothes and hair began to dampen, the prince handed his angel the apple, and watched her lips touch it’s smooth exterior in order to take a bite. To his shock, she began to choke. As her breathing grew more and more uneasy, her body fell to the cobbles, and the rosy apple was released from limp hands, only to roll into the lake they used to so fondly gaze into.<br /><br />The prince sunk to his knees and gathered her up in his arms. Kissing her cold forehead, he cradled her body in his, weeping on the steps of the church. The legend goes that he died there, holding her still, frozen from the cold and rain. Yet their souls were united again.<br /><br />Perhaps one day, when I am in the land of Flanders, I will remember this story when I look down from the bridge onto the lake. The town may have changed, but sometimes the past can be resurfaced, especially whenever an apple floats in the water under the moonlight of a fairytale Belgium<br /></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-71052326569234120112007-08-15T02:40:00.000-07:002007-10-18T02:20:12.415-07:00Just another Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDM9UVBr5nHbmq-XeWsuuLFda-o_jnhUceXSO-qWSD9fzkrnnK1wvz1k4ygtI7_Uhurd445eZNP_6my67Eh1YbLmzB6y3RpK1UqhKzcqrywJ47e62DbJYmEXrbeYrZjVLUCOn1rgqxoVk/s1600-h/Souvenir_by_porcelainveins.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098861701709974546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDM9UVBr5nHbmq-XeWsuuLFda-o_jnhUceXSO-qWSD9fzkrnnK1wvz1k4ygtI7_Uhurd445eZNP_6my67Eh1YbLmzB6y3RpK1UqhKzcqrywJ47e62DbJYmEXrbeYrZjVLUCOn1rgqxoVk/s320/Souvenir_by_porcelainveins.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Sitting under what cover the overhanging roof gave, I watched as the rain lazily dripped down and splashed into puddles lining the concrete sidewalk. I pulled my legs up to my chest and sucked on the filter of my Marlboro Light. The air wasn't warm, as it should have been in the middle of July, but humid. The wetness in the air made my hair and T-shirt stick to me annoyingly.<br /><br />I checked my wrist watch hanging across my skinny hand. I still had thirty minutes of my time left and I had nothing better to do than destroy my lungs and watch the rain fall. The thought of going back home early to complete my assignment made me cringe. I've never been the go-getter in the family.<br /><br />With a soft smoker's cough, I flicked the butt out onto the street and pulled another from the pack lying beside me. Just as I was about to light up I saw someone familiar; my stomach clenched up and I pushed the nervousness down with the will power that always deserted me when I tried to quit smoking. I looked down at the cigarette quickly, trying to make myself look busy. Too late, she had already seen me.<br /><br />She walked over to me, exhibiting as much grace as one would expect from an acrobat walking a tightrope, every step looking calculated. Before she sat down beside me on the Bench, she brushed some wet hair out of her face and smiled. I grinned uncomfortably and took a hard drag, making myself cough.<br /><br />Looking at me with amusement in her eyes, she said, "Smoking is bad for your health."<br /><br />"So is walking around in the rain," I wheezed out between coughs.<br /><br />"Touché." The small smile on her face made me more uncomfortable than I already was.<br /><br />"So what’s up?" I asked her sharply, wanting her to leave so I could go back to being calm and collected. This happened every time she was around me. I hated myself for allowing the mere presence of someone affect me in such a way.<br /><br />"Nothing much," she replied nonchalantly. "Just thought I would stop by for some tea. You should try it sometime." She said pointing towards a small tea stall nearby.<br /><br />"Well, actually I like coffee and with all..." My train of thought wandered off and I didn't bother trying to retrieve it. My stomach felt like it was going to implode.<br /><br />"Oh." Was that disappointment? "I understand." And again?<br /><br />I risked stomach implosion to look at my long time friend, to her perhaps just another acquaintance. She wasn't looking at me. She was staring at a coin lying near her right foot. It was heads-up. Good luck.<br /><br />"You should put that in your shoe." My voice had changed to an almost friendly tone. When she smiled at me I looked away and took the last drag of my cigarette before flicking it as I had done its predecessor.<br /><br />"It reminds me of someone else, who does that, too," she said. I could hear the smile in her voice.<br /><br />I shrugged and was relieved to find that the watch on my hand was telling me I could go back home without being considered a wannabe good boy. She was startled as I collected my cigarette pack and got to my feet quickly. "I should be getting back home."<br /><br />"Oh, yeah." She too stood and we stewed in awkwardness for a few moments. She suddenly squeezed my hand and said, "Well, give me a call sometime. See you later."<br /><br />My mouth had gone dry at her sudden touch and I'm not entirely sure how I managed to force out a strangled okay.<br /><br />"Bye, dude," she said, calling me what my pals usually called. She was gone as suddenly as she had appeared and I walked through the gallery, directly to the bathroom.<br /><br />I closed the door, went to the basin and rested my head in my hands near the tap. Why was it always like this? I collected myself and splashed my face with cold water from the tap. After making a partial recovery in the bathroom, I continued to the elevator. Instead of going down I got out at the next floor and walked myself back to the gallery.<br /><br />The penny that had been lying at her feet was now gone, perhaps resting happily in her shoe. </div><div><br />The weather was clearer now; the rain had stopped near two. I rode for ten minutes before I reached my classy apartment building on Deccan Street. I walked up the flights of starirs and down a neat and tidy living room to my shabby room. I tossed my bag on the chair, startling Alice, the lab that we had.<br /><br />"Sorry Alice," I said as I flopped down on my bean bag.<br /><br />Instead of her usual habit of dancing around me, she stood near the table where I had kept my cell phone.<br /><br />When the canine sat near the phone and stared at me with those dog eyes, I shook my head and said, "No, I’m not calling her, Alice." The sound of her soft whining could be heard from where I sat on my bean bag. "No," I sated firmly. Knowing I was being ridiculous, I averted my graze from her only to glance back and sigh. "Fine."<br /><br />Alice wagged her tail to her victory as I leaned forward and picked up my cell phone.</div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-31896520783961071852007-08-10T08:43:00.000-07:002007-08-12T00:24:34.247-07:00Going Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCxUB6ypeB-DD9v94U7yt-xCpzyVYk2qB77Un0ZD8gxI7VieY4fcV1h2q1XHXECzj9GtPGoM4KJuEkHxTb8UXIRrDe2Na_IOcZyXw-g1lOc8hwprRCheULoFsSyA2ZoqNy72D4o11-cqs/s1600-h/Annum_Per_Annum_II_by_Karezoid.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097130400392956898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCxUB6ypeB-DD9v94U7yt-xCpzyVYk2qB77Un0ZD8gxI7VieY4fcV1h2q1XHXECzj9GtPGoM4KJuEkHxTb8UXIRrDe2Na_IOcZyXw-g1lOc8hwprRCheULoFsSyA2ZoqNy72D4o11-cqs/s320/Annum_Per_Annum_II_by_Karezoid.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div>His full number was 15835 and he (or she, or it) was just an army mule. But 835 had more service and had seen more campaigns than all the other mules in his company, and certainly more than a lot of the men who for the most part were youngsters. Except, of course, his own driver, Kali charan, who had led 835 through the streaming fever jungles of Mizoram and along the treacherous snow precipices to Drass in Kashmir. 835 and kali were inseparable comrades and during the daily grooming, they had held long and quite intelligent conversations which none of the other mule driver thought strange. I do not think it strange either, for too often do the army folks owe their lives to the intelligent mules and their gallant drivers to harbour anything but the loftiest opinions of them.<br /><br />835, along with five other mules formed the animal transport section attached to the remote station, where my dad was posted, and often provided us with welcome diversion when they broke loose from the picket ropes, careened madly around the perimeter like a circus team. While sweating, blaspheming soldiers tried to round them up. It was all just a game, with the mules whining excitedly and kicking their hind legs high, like equine ballerinas, as they cunningly dodged their caretakers.<br /><br />At other times they stood patiently in the picket lines in the rain and bitter cold. To shivering sentries in the lonely watches of the night their soft nickering and occasional stamping were comforting sounds. At time the mules fought amongst themselves, squealing and biting until a soothing word or a burst of abuse from the driver on duty quieted them like reproved children. Ah yes, they were very human indeed. No wonder their drivers grew to love them like their own children.<br /><br />One day, orders came transferring kali charan to the pension establishment as he had completed his service in the Indian army. He spent most of his that week grooming 835 unnecessarily whilst they reminisced for the last time over the many hardships they had shared together. He volunteered for the extra ration duties for that week, so that he could make the long trip to the brigade headquarters and back with 835. And when he said goodbye to us and went down the trail, Bansi ram, his good friend went with him; and old 835 carried kali charan's bedding roll and kitbag for the last time. A week later we were shocked to hear the tragic news of kali charan's death. The 'Three-Ton'(truck) carrying the leave party had fallen into ravine, killing the occupants.<br /><br />One stormy night shortly afterwards, Bansi Ram woke us up with the information that one of the mules was ‘<em>Bahut Bimar’</em> (very sick).<br /><br />I rushed to the picket lines with Bansi Ram. He had by then rigged a tarpaulin between two trees as a rude shelter over 835 who lay panting on the wet grass, looking up with large pain stricken eyes, wrenching the heart out of us because of the helplessness. The storm had blown the telephone poles down, so a patrol was dispatched to fetch the veterinary officer. It would be four hours before they returned. All the while the rain lashed in under the tarpaulin and the dim smoky, swinging lantern danced on the glistening raincoats under which we were huddled.<br /><br />'We have done all we can, Saab.' said Bansi Ram. 'It must be the colic.'<br /><br />The Himalayan storm slowly but surely subsided. The Stars were fading when at last the gate sentry's challenge announced the Vet's arrival. Quickly and efficiently he set to work but it was too late. 835 suddenly quivered violently all over, raised his head in a brave effort to stand again, then lay back tiredly and moved no more.<br /><br />'Dead,' announced the vet regularly, washing his hands.<br /><br /><em>'Nahin Saab</em>,' said Bansi Ram, ‘Not dead. 835 has gone to serve with Kali.’<br /><br />We all knew he was right.<br /><br />And From a distant village across the border came dawn's mystic heralds of cockcrow and the high chant of the muezzin.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-16862410630472480402007-07-19T05:45:00.000-07:002007-07-19T06:02:52.666-07:00Figment<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EMV2kX9AoFkAeElBlbTO-Xb9iBx0xkF7G6ePLY0_FFW_ER-islPjxazcPa7fd6UODJwPhV_YwUBXUhlhhdiBibEkLYBBIDS-jiXuMuu18mftFXG-OcGZiXxPtUtPgtLOF7iRBNtHdVU/s1600-h/Pepper_Romance_by_Artgerm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088891784232487778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EMV2kX9AoFkAeElBlbTO-Xb9iBx0xkF7G6ePLY0_FFW_ER-islPjxazcPa7fd6UODJwPhV_YwUBXUhlhhdiBibEkLYBBIDS-jiXuMuu18mftFXG-OcGZiXxPtUtPgtLOF7iRBNtHdVU/s320/Pepper_Romance_by_Artgerm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>Her slender shapely form glided across the room and took a seat next to me.</div><div><br />“Hi.”, I despondently greeted.</div><div><br />“Hey what wrong?” her word caressed me with loving softness.</div><div><br />“Bang, I’m dead.”</div><div><br />“Hey, come on what’s eating you?” </div><div><br />“Everything”</div><div><br />“Could you maybe narrow it down a little?” the laughter behind her voice tried to tug at my own, but it simply didn’t work, not this time.</div><div><br />“No.”, a moment too late I realized how the word had a cutting edge I hadn’t really meant.She sighed, the laughter gone now, ”Fine, if you don’t want to talk I can’t make you.” </div><div><br />“Yes, you could… if you want to push the issue.”, I sounded like a petulant child, wrapped up in my own pain. </div><div><br />Her voice was soft again, tender, comforting, “Please, talk to me….”</div><br /><div>Silence hung in the air as I searched for the words. Then it exploded out of me, rapid fire, like an accusation, against her or myself, I couldn’t say. “Okay, you want to know what’s wrong? It’s you. You’re what’s wrong. You’re not real, you’re a figment of my imagination. You’re everything I want, everything I need, and you aren’t real.”</div><br /><div>“I’m as real as you make me.” She didn’t even hesitate in her answer.</div><br /><div>“No, you don’t get it. I created you from the fabric of my mind, to be my perfect match, a soul mate, a perfect everlasting love … and there’s this … this void of reality that separates us. As much as I want you, you can’t be flesh and blood. I can’t make you a part of my reality.”</div><br /><div>I collapsed into her, folding up like a fan, and the tears came.</div><br /><div>Her fingers were gently running through my hair as she cradled my head.</div><br /><div>“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” She paused a moment, “Perhaps, I can make you a part of my fantasies.” </div></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-49417401322649024262007-06-07T23:38:00.000-07:002007-06-08T05:21:04.781-07:00An Unsual Journey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1Xoh7tzYC9AneW88oKncXjsKHnUUYt8bHCd68xMK35uuxOu6SHRCwBouLe9PwFiDT9jXJ37den4BsSy5tUNrYb0QFERX13xbB8rsYNMrdVE1i3zMCfuAp-b7ejqRz0D72hR_TtFbKZw/s1600-h/looking_out_the_window_by_Parandroid112.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073662535814683890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1Xoh7tzYC9AneW88oKncXjsKHnUUYt8bHCd68xMK35uuxOu6SHRCwBouLe9PwFiDT9jXJ37den4BsSy5tUNrYb0QFERX13xbB8rsYNMrdVE1i3zMCfuAp-b7ejqRz0D72hR_TtFbKZw/s320/looking_out_the_window_by_Parandroid112.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><em>My tribute to one of the greatest writers of india. Mr ruskin bond, a heartfelt gratitude for all the wonderful stories you have written and making me understand the importance of little things in life.</em> </div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><div></div><div>I had the compartment to myself up to Solan, or I thought. Then a girl got in. The couple who saw her off were probably her parents. They seemed very anxious about her comfort, and the women gave the girl a detailed instruction as to where to keep her things, when not to lean out of window, et cetra et cetra.<br /><br />I was little oblivious of the people around me. She got up to adjust her luggage, in the overhead luggage shelf. She was standing very close to me, so close that the perfume from her hair was tantalizing. I wanted to raise my hand and touch her hair but she moved away, only the scent of her perfume lingered where she had stood. It would take me some time to discover something about her looks, but I liked her voice. They called goodbyes and the train pulled out of the station.<br /><br />‘Are you going to shimla?’ I asked<br /><br />It was a pleasant morning but the girl had a shawl thrown across her shoulder. Her feet were in a pair of ordinary sandals and she was wearing a purple coloured Salwar-kamize. But she was young and graceful.<br /><br />‘Yes, my aunt is meeting me there.’ the girl said.<br /><br />She had peach-blossom complexion, set off by shiny black hair and dark eloquent eyes, typical of hill people.<br /><br />‘Where are you going?’ she asked<br /><br />‘To Solan, and then to Kasauli.’<br /><br />‘But you could have gone by road.’<br /><br />‘Yes, but this is the best time.’ I said recalling my memories. ‘The hills are covered with wild dahlias, the sun is delicious so a trip by train is much preferred.’<br /><br />She was silent I wondered if my words had touched her, or whether she thought me as a romantic fool, or just another weird guy. She looked out of the window for sometime and neither of us said anything.<br /><br />‘Quite a misty morning, isn’t it?’<br />‘Oh! Perfectly misty’ I said making a pretence of observing the landscape.<br /><br />I turned from the window and faced the girl, and for a while we sat in silence.<br /><br />‘ You have an interesting face.’ I remarked<br /><br />I was becoming quite daring, I thought. But it was a safe remark, few girls can resist flattery.<br /><br />She laughed pleasantly – a clear ringing laugh.<br /><br />‘It’s nice to be told that I have a interesting face. I’m tired of people telling me I have a pretty face.’<br /><br />Oh, but you do have a pretty face I thought: and aloud I said<br /><br />‘Well, an interesting face can also be pretty.’<br /><br />She looked wonderingly into my eyes, as though searching for something. I don’t know if she found what she was looking for, but she smiled.<br /><br />‘Thank you’ she said. After a moment or so<br /><br />‘But why are you so serious?’ she asked<br /><br />I thought then, I would try to laugh for her. But the thought of laughing made me feel troubled and lonely. So I just smiled faintly.<br /><br />‘We’ll be soon at your station’ she said<br /><br />‘Oh, yes we will indeed’ I said glancing at my watch<br /><br />‘Thank god, that it’s a small journey’ I said ‘I can’t possibly think of sitting down for more than 3-4 hours’<br /><br />And yet I was prepared to sit there for almost any length of time. Just to listen her talk. Her voice had the sparkle of the mountain stream. As soon as I leave the train, I thought, she would forget our brief encounter; But It would stay with me for the rest of the journey, and a little more after.<br />The engine’s whistle shrieked, the carriage wheels changed their sound and rhythm. I got up and began to collect my things. The train drew slowly into the station. Outside there was the shouting of porters and vendors.<br /><br />‘Goodbye’ said the girl<br /><br />‘Bye’ I grinned ‘have a pleasant journey’<br /><br />‘Yes, thank you’ said the girl<br /><br />The guard blew the whistle and the train moved off. We watched each other till the signal box came in the way, and then the train took a turn.<br /><br />I stood there for some time. There were so many things happening on the platform, and yet I could not rid my mind of the picture of the girls face and her dark, smouldering eyes. It was then that it dawned to me that, our relationship was rather unusual. It was like two logs meeting in a river and then parting only to meet never.<br /><br />And the words of Ralph Hodgson came out of my mouth:<br /><br /><em>‘Time, you old gipsy man,<br />Will you not stay?<br />Put up your caravan,<br />Just for one day.’ </em></div><div><em></em></div><div><em></em></div><div><em></em></div><div></div></div></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-19061001993292122152007-06-01T00:03:00.001-07:002007-06-01T00:09:19.666-07:00A Book And A Cup Of Tea<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrU9kA87ad_nYlaHdLTt_spEGG2yJJp0BWlpCmnpo4mn4-LsnFyKpRMuZg7bSbE79849oZgCeYxkgFOj2zP38JBjQkOdKj2NuorULMRwtfuuaTl242dR_4-SneGjemrmQ9ne-tFzSNZ4/s1600-h/Mystery_of_the_book_by_Ciril.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070988318984761250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrU9kA87ad_nYlaHdLTt_spEGG2yJJp0BWlpCmnpo4mn4-LsnFyKpRMuZg7bSbE79849oZgCeYxkgFOj2zP38JBjQkOdKj2NuorULMRwtfuuaTl242dR_4-SneGjemrmQ9ne-tFzSNZ4/s320/Mystery_of_the_book_by_Ciril.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em><span style="font-size:130%;">Pick right...</span><br /></em><div></div><div></div><br /><div>Imagine, if you will, a rainy afternoon, a book you have been saving up for special occasions and a mug of fresh brewed tea. Imagine the feelings that course through you as you brew your tea and anticipate the pleasure of shutting yourself off from the world for an afternoon. A retreat into your own private world, a drawing shut of the curtains between you and everyday, hectic, busy life. Can you imagine a pleasure greater than this for a book lover? I cannot. The sweet aroma of tea curling around while you weave a web of fiction around yourself. The gentle joy that words give you as you sip on your Earl Grey or Darjeeling. It can be the ultimate sensory experience. A book for your eyes and brain and imagination. A cup of tea for your stomach. Tea for the body and a book for the soul.<br /><br />Clear your schedule so you have a small space for pleasure in your otherwise humdrum day, pick your favourite author, better still, pick two or three. Brew your tea. Settle down in your favourite spot. It could be a window seat, your bed, the floor of your mother's kitchen. I'd suggest the loo, but it's not hygienic to take your tea there. Wrap your self in a world created specially for you by the book you choose. That is the way to instant heaven.<br /><br />Picking the book is important. If humour is your thing, you can go down an imaginary river with Jerome K. Jerome's Three Men In A Boat. P. G. Wodehouse is not a bad choice either. An afternoon spent at Blandings Castle or in London society guided by that unique Wodehouse creation, Jeeves, is an afternoon well spent. One could also turn to the epic book The Lord Of The Rings for an afternoon of action swathed in fantasy spent in a world never seen anywhere but in J. R. R. Tolkein's mind. If you have a hankering for murder and mystery, if you want to catch up with the much moustachioed Hercule Poirot or the fluffy Miss Marple then turn to your collection of Agatha Christies. Maybe you like your stories with a twist? Then Roald Dahl would be just what the doctor ordered. Arundhati Roy, Salman Rushdie, Khalil Gibran, Sidney Sheldon, Jeffery Archer, Erle Stanley Gardner and John Grisham are all good authors for an afternoon meant for fiction. It all depends on what you like to read. Pick a book. Any book. But make sure your book suits you. The worst thing that can happen is finding out that you are in the mood for science fiction when you have settled down with a detective novel.<br /><br />The tea is just as important. Tea comes in more varieties than you'd expect. There's black tea, green tea, oolong tea and the very rare white tea. You could even pamper yourself with an herbal tea like chamomile or peppermint. Take your tea with or without milk. It's entirely up to you. Just make sure that your tea is the way you like it. Take it with biscuits or take it with cake. Take it with anything you like. Whatever you do, this is your afternoon and it should suit you. Forget about everyone else. And please yourself this afternoon. You could even make your self a cup of coffee or soup. But for the best results, tea cannot be beaten.<br /><br />Then we come to the all-important question of where to hide away for the afternoon. A window seat is a lovely place to read. You can take a couple of cushions along for the ride. And then there is the added advantage of natural light. Whenever you get bored with your book (shame on you if you do), you can come back to reality and watch the world go by your window. It can be quite a surprise to find that while you were away with your book, the sun may have set and the afternoon is no more. If you do not have a window seat of your own or if someone else has already booked the only available window seat, then the best course is to retreat to your bed. Everyone has one. Curl up with your books and pillows and your cups of tea. It can be one of the most satisfying experiences in the world. You can last the day through with all these adjuncts to a delightful experience. If you have a room to your self, you are really lucky. You can go the entire day without being disturbed by anyone.<br /><br />Rain is always a welcome addition to this afternoon. The sound of gently falling rain is one of the most soothing things in the world. If it is pouring cats and dogs, all the better. You are safe and dry at home while the rest of the world is scurrying around in the rain. It does not have to rain. It could be a bright, sunshine day. It could be any kind of weather. If you are one of those lucky people who do not have to work for a living, spare a thought for all those fellow human beings who are out there working to support the economy while you are wrapped in your book. If you do have to work, then thank your lucky stars that you have an afternoon off to spend with a book. Even if you do have to work, escape for a day... You will never regret it.<br /><br />So go ahead and find heaven. It's only a book and a cup of tea away. </div><div> </div><div><br />Ps- Warm thanks to lady C.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386413450881688769.post-71731927314174533632007-05-27T23:27:00.000-07:002007-06-01T01:33:05.782-07:00Thoughts From Beyond The Line<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdoLgoFAu09o-aFxzBpFR9xSiIjKrIlYNr8xux6sTBZewCrVx2KaY4LDbdy0jdqi0PrsSUApJPCAGdslW3qLyxTmhiB8VedCYjgyzgHCrWt17Hkykn_cNQVdQt5vDXS6E8j_gCwwRzEY/s1600-h/Schism_by_x_horizon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069495117094754002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdoLgoFAu09o-aFxzBpFR9xSiIjKrIlYNr8xux6sTBZewCrVx2KaY4LDbdy0jdqi0PrsSUApJPCAGdslW3qLyxTmhiB8VedCYjgyzgHCrWt17Hkykn_cNQVdQt5vDXS6E8j_gCwwRzEY/s320/Schism_by_x_horizon.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong>Silken Nights</strong></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></div></span><br /><div><br />Some days, you walk through velvet trees down purple midnight roads, and you look up into an unfamiliar sky, and you see the seven sisters, clearly, like in a book of celestial magic. And then you look down again, and then up, at the northern star, burning in that purple, silken sky like a fervent wish. Something tinkles inside you, shivering, quivering, and then it breaks, shattering like a crystal constellation. You wish you hadn't ever looked up, because the loneliness of the world, the emptiness of the world comes cascading down upon you until the cold air freezes in your lungs. Things are happening, farther away than you can ever reach, on the very edge of your three-span wide existence. And your infinite smallness encompasses you and your eyes well up with helplessness.</div><div><br />But some nights, walking through that very same corridor of trees, you look into the eyes of the sky and smile, because it is within your reach and within your dreams. And sometimes, you cannot see the skies, and you cannot see the trees, and you cannot see the black of the horizon.</div><div><br />It's on nights like these, when my work is done and the next day holds no attraction, that I feel a little lonely. Not lonely for a particular person, but just a sort of deep-seated aching for a girl who could simply exist alongside me, filling my void with her activity. Someone to pick up the phone in between chapters, or sums, or thoughts, and share in a distracted, introspective kind of way the lessons just learnt. A familiar voice that gives a sense of before and after to my timeless evening. An unconscious statement for me to dwell over, or smile at the thought of in later moments. Something to look forward to, something to look back upon, even if it is only a half-moment in somebody else's life. When she finishes…. Before she starts…Knowing that in a room apart from mine, a life I love is burning with the friction of to and fro, of thought and motion and action, makes my own inactivity seem less wasteful.</div><div><br />Empty room in an empty world, Full of things and thoughts and sounds,How is it I only see and hear,The emptiness around?</div><div><br />Where did the time go?</div><div> </div><div>It dissolved in unfinished actions.</div><div>It disintegrated in wasted evenings.</div><div>It burned in futile retrospection.</div><div>It corroded in moist self-pity.</div><div>It fell apart in forgotten moments.</div><div>It melted into shapeless figures.</div><div>It changed into another of life's regrets. </div><div> </div><div><br />And emptiness remains, a filling void…<br /><br /> </div>Anonymous Dreamerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00109922476452484356noreply@blogger.com0