Friday, October 30, 2015
Friday, October 23, 2015
Sunday, October 18, 2015
|Image Source: Magpie Tales|
They call me an artist
I create masterpieces after all
But what they don't know
Is that my art is my life
That the sketches on canvas
Are chaos and confusion
Reflected from my thoughts
It keeps me sane, these ragged lines
They interpret my art in different ways
While I want to laugh in their faces
That feeling fleets as soon as it comes
They have made me who I am
But the only person I'm doing it for
Is myself, that's who I am, a selfish creator
I shy away from colors
I prefer my art like my life, in grays and blacks
A brush stroke here, a smudge there
I search for answers in between
They continue to delude me however
Still I take a deep breath and continue...
Linking this post to Magpie Tales - Mag 290.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
There was once a girl who was born with a void inside her. As she grew up, she tried to fill it with people, things and places. But the harder she tried, the bigger it grew. Until she gave up and tried to build her life around it. It wasn't easy, but on some days she could pretend that it didn't exist and get on with her life. And that was when he entered her life. He filled up the void with an emotion she hadn't experienced before. For the first time in her life, she felt she was finally going to be all right. But when he decided that she was too much baggage for him to handle, he left, taking with him all that he gave her and then some more. When he left, he took a part of her with him too. The void grew, a gaping hole in the centre of her being. A hole where her heart was supposed to be. A numbness in her soul. They called her cold after that. Emotionless. A cold blooded bitch. But she knew that anything, anything was better than being labeled a fool of love.
Saturday, October 10, 2015
So, the other day I watching the movie 'Sylvia' which is based on the real life story of Sylvia Plath. Plath has been portrayed onscreen by Gwyneth Paltrow. It's a beautiful albeit tragic movie. It shows the love/hate relationship that she shared with her husband, the poet Ted Hughes. This is not a movie review, but I would recommend you to give it a watch as it is one that made me think A LOT. It shows the emotional turmoil that a writer undergoes; how frustrating it can be waiting for the muse to strike and once she does, the words certainly flow and how! Now, I must confess that I haven't read any Plath except for the few poems here and there. But this movie certainly had me intrigued and I'm hoping to lay my hands on Plath's semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar real soon in addition to reading more of her works.
Sylvia is a movie that deals with the depression that Plath had been fighting and finally succumbed to. Even today, there is a stigma surrounding all sorts of mental illnesses. Rather than showing empathy and kindness, we live in a world where people are ridiculed and shunned by society. Battling with mental illness is not easy, the least you can do is show your support. I was reminded of another movie that I watched last month called The Hours which is loosely based on the novel Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf.
I couldn't help but compare the two writers from two different periods and the tragic ways in which they chose to end their lives, which reminds me of this dialogue from a brilliant book that I read recently The truth about the Harry Quebert Affair (I'm in love with quotes, in case you haven't noticed already) between Nola and Harry where she asks him as to why writers are such lonely people, perhaps the loneliest in the world. And the reply given by Harry still blows my mind away:
"I don't know whether it's that writers are lonely or whether it's loneliness that makes them write..."
Writers are definitely an unpredictable lot, after all, how can one really know or even begin to understand how the human mind works?
Sylvia or Woolf, these are writers that I look up to and one can only try and be a better writer by learning from the best. I may have digressed a lot while writing this post but I certainly had fun writing it, which is what I love about writing. I found the above quote while I was spending my time researching (also read as googling) Plath. I couldn't find a better one to conclude as this one resonates with me on all levels. And this, is exactly why I write.
Friday, October 9, 2015
What is the color of love, you ask me
Is it the blushing pink on her cheeks
When she smiles for me
Is it the scarlet red on her trembling lips
Just before she kisses me
Or is it the coffee brown of her eyes
As she locks hers with mine
Sometimes it's the orange in her hair
When the sun strikes it from behind
Sometimes it's the color of honey on her skin
When she holds me close
At other times it's the silvery moonlight
That streams in between the window panes
Or the turquoise of the river
When I row across it for her
Sometimes it's the color of lavender
When she embraces me
Black, white and all the colors in between
That's what she will always be
A kaleidoscope of colors, a mirage...
Linking this post to Theme Thursday - Colors.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
From the book cover: Wimpy men, whimsical women, people trapped in their own time zones, cuckolding wives... Meet the Melekats. They are an inimitable lot!
Theses are slice-of-life stories about an old Nair family from south Malabar in Kerala. The Melekat mosaic includes Ammini Amma, the matriarch of the family, and her large brood of offspring and descendants. A wannabe journalist in search of the perfect story, a girl in search of a husband, a woman in search of a reason - any reason - to leave her husband...each character arouses curiosity.
There is love, laughter, betrayal, hurt, anger, meetings, partings, and even a chatty ghost, in this fluid and engaging narrative.
My thoughts: A wide variety of interesting and intriguing characters is what makes up the gist of Kith and Kin, as the name indicates. When I started reading, I couldn't help but compare the stories to that of Anita Nair and Kamala Das, some of my favorite writers, primarily because of the setting in Kerala, which is home for me. But that was where the resemblance ended. Sheila has brought in her own distinctive voice and narrative to the story while breathing life into her characters.
Though the book is a novel, the chapters read like short stories on its own, each one dealing with a different theme. There were quite a lot of characters who are all related and once you get a better grasp of who is who, the story progresses along smoothly. I loved the characters of Melekat Ammini Amma, the matriarch, Suvarna, Seema and Sindhu, her granddaughters, Sumant, Suvarna's childhood friend to name a few.
Reading the book was like taking a trip back home. Yes, it evokes a sense of nostalgia as you go along with the characters in their journey. The book is well written and edited, with impeccable English. I had to pick up my dictionary quite a few times, and this is certainly a good thing if it helps you in learning new words. There are so many topics that the author has tried to cover including infidelity, complex human emotions and its vulnerabilities, marriage and love. I also loved the title of each chapter which gives a thoughtful preview of what is to be expected from the coming story.
At two hundred odd pages, the book is a light read and I finished it over a couple of days, relishing each one of the stories. Read this one not just to get a peek into the Melekat family, but to dwell into some of the darker emotions and stories that we keep hidden, not daring to voice them out aloud.
The book has been sent to me by the author in exchange of an honest review. All the views expressed here are my own.
Monday, October 5, 2015
Destitute.. Plain. Black. Hollow. A never ending spiral through which I'm falling. Grabbing the bannister, but clutching empty air in my hands. Falling, falling, falling. A rock hard bottom perhaps? I do not know. But what bothers me is that I couldn't care less. A bottomless pit. That's what I crave right now. For now, that is oblivion. A haven. Away from the noises of the world, away from its clutches. A void that refuses to be filled. One that refuses to leave the caverns of my mind. Thoughts, sliding inside my head, deep and dark, slimy like worms. I cringe. Why does it feel like I will never get out from here? Do I really want to? For now this feels dangerously close like home.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
My vision seems to be clouded
I see things through a pink haze
For unwavering things I was moulded
Yet how beautiful it is in my smoldering gaze
Love; true, true love, words I scorned
And now my world revolves around it
The smile you gifted is now adorned
Like a million twinkling little lamps lit
Scribbled lyrics on the last page of an old notebook
Your name and mine, hearts and arrows
Your favorite dishes I cook
Humming around like a song sparrow
A handful of sunshine yellow daisies I plucked
They sit waiting in the water for you
Finding you, I still can't believe my luck
I'm over the moon, people like you are certainly few