Thursday, February 28, 2013

silent moments


My grandaunt left yesterday and my brother and grandmother accompanied her to the airport. My mother and uncle stood near our gate, talking. I was near our door, enjoying the silence. The house was empty, truly empty and even the night was quite silent. It was eerie and beautiful, both at the same time.
I’m a silent person. Not quiet, just silent. I can be quite but I’m more silent than quiet. I rarely talk at work, I rarely talk at home. So much so that I have now been labeled as the silent one. I like it though. I feel like people expect less from me, and people notice me less because I keep quiet. I’m very talkative at times though. I can go on and on for hours. But more often than not, I choose to not be heard, not be seen, and not be acknowledged.
Sometimes though my eyes dart around, looking for a listening ear. These are the times that are scary, that I try to avoid. Because sometimes, especially when it’s cold and gloomy, the silence, it surrounds me and it chokes me.

Question: How long is a moment?
Answer: An eternity.
Explanation: An eternity, if moment is to be memorable enough to be noted, remembered etc.

Saturday, February 16, 2013

For now, I'm happy

Today I gave my life a little thought. My articles for this week had been published and I was quite happy with them all. One article was about a man who has dedicated his life to teaching. It felt great to have been the writer of his story. Not that I wrote his story in the sense that a novelist would write the life of a character.
There's more to writing though. Its more than telling someone's story when they come to you. It's about looking for a story, where there may not seem to be one. Some of my articles tend to be about my own life or experiences and when I told this to a friend, he said it must be pretty weird to write about one self. In many ways, it is. But when I write about my life, its mostly about the people who are part of my life.
Everyone has a story. Whether it's interesting or not, its still a story. Not many are told and not many are heard.
There's more to it though, than getting out someone's story. Not many like that. For now I'm content with my nearly invisible life, but maybe someday money, fame, luxury may push me towards greater things. A well paying job, a better newspaper, a completely different field. For now though, this is quite enough. My table at work, the uncomfortable chair, the words I write. Its all enough.

Some people deserve to have their story written. And for now, I will do the writing.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

On memory and cockroaches

Thought: why is the harmless cockroach killed when the harmful centipede rarely is? Why do we forget certain memories and remember others?

Today morning's status update: "the sole reasons for the existence of men are to kill those stuff (cockroaches) and to fix cars. & reproduce" ... Wise words pal, wise words

The comment by my editor:

I read the article. And at first I thought, what does memory have to do with roaches? I expected him to go off topic. He didn't though. He says that we choose to forget. We kill the harmless cockroach like we forget a memory. That is, when we intentionally forget, or replace those memories with something else.

I do kill the occasional mosquito and ants if there is no way to get rid of them. This always bothers as I've been taught not to kill. But I do, sadly. The annoying mosquito I swap at, mostly absentmindedly, doesn't deserve to die. If we were all mosquitoes, no one would be alive. E are all annoying, our existence a curse. Cockroaches though, they manage to survive at home. Cause them no pain, we would chase them out. Or we would hide in the comfort of our rooms until daylight chases the winged creature away.

I agree with him though. We let certain memories haunt us, or we remember them even if they aren't our most treasured memories. Some we kill or forget. Why???

"Memory is to console us for what we are, imagination to compensate for what we are not" -someone

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

The white soccer ball

Two days ago I received a message from a one time friend. I won't go into the details of how we sued to be close friends and how it all ended. Here's the thing though, he said he was sorry for reacting badly to something I should be sorry I did and he asked me if we could be friends again. Did I say yes? No!

Since last year or so, I've always wanted to go back and end things with him in a less bitter way. So that we both are happier and there are no ends left lose. So here was the perfect opportunity to do that. What stopped me was the sense of hope I felt when I saw his name. Not hope for love or some bright future with heart shaped clouds and candy rain. Those are silly dreams I didn't even have as a kid. But this hope that maybe I could go back to that time, when friendship, crushes and innocence existed in a less subtle or nonexistent way as it does now.

I'm not old enough to give up on something I haven't experienced. But I have, in many ways. Not given up in the real sense of the word, more like, I have no expectations. And while people look at me, shake their stupid heads and think I'm just being a typical teenager maybe I'm just being more real.

Today while going to work, I saw the florists I always see in the morning. Their customers are the living relatives of the freshly dead. There's a hospital nearby and a death would mean a small crowd in front of those shops. Today though, except for a shop or two, those funeral flowers were replaced by roses and hearts and soft toys. It's almost like today is solely for those lovers. As if the rest of the world stops turning today. People don't fall sick and they don't die.

I also saw a man, old, hair grayling. Clothes dirty. Unshaven for at least a month. He had most probably lost his sense following a tragic incident or just due to old age. But he had this white, perfect.y new soccer ball with him. It wasn't fully blown up, one side caving in. But he kept throwing it up and catching it while crossing the road and then kicked it up with his knee. Ad on this gloomy day, the rain clouds taking over, the sight just washed away the darkness. It reminded me that while I'm nineteen and battling the first steps into adulthood, he must be in his sixties and doing something the children of today rarely do.

Monday, February 11, 2013

picking your friends

I'm extremely picky when it comes to clothes, food and friends. With the latter though one rarely has a choice. Over the course of four days I made friends with people I wouldn't have though possibilities of friendship. There were experienced writers who knew things about the world and people like me who are still learning. I saw an entire different side to these people who seemed so ordinary at first. The conversations, time spent together they all proved that, you don't need a whole lot in common to connect with someone and sometimes what you do have in common are things that seem so trivial.

“You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose.”
John Green, Will Grayson, Will Grayson
In the end though you realize that you can't pick your friends, but you can pick their nose -not literally. When someone asks you, "what's your name?" it can be the beginning of something just beautiful. Know how rain makes everything greener and more beautiful? Friends do that too. Whether they are just drizzles or hurricanes in your life, they'll make everything look better and brighter. 

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Reading, writing and blogging

First of all, this blog will not be a personal blog. Correction, it won't be a completely personal blog. My opinions will merge with my experiences and likes and dislikes. Here, I will mostly post any musings, and maybe even a few articles I wrote for the newspaper I currently freelance for.
I thought of giving an introduction here but maybe it's better found in whatever my posts will be. Like many of my age, I don't really know who I am, or where my life is headed, but for now I know I write, I read and I blog.

You can find my personal blog at and my poems, though I am in no way a poet, at