“Poetry isn’t what I do; it’s who I am...”
I find this statement has become increasingly true the more I find out about who I am and where I fit in to the ‘Grand Plan’ of it all. I’m hardly the right person to tell anyone what poetry is and is not, but there are some things I know to be divinely born of heart and sober mind. I don’t believe poetry is an ‘ON/OFF’ switch that u can choose to turn on the inspiration on queue; poetry is not the structure of the writing, or even how it is delivered across and received by others. It is not a tool one uses to get what they want from, to impress others, to intentionally oppress or put down another individual. It is not a weapon. It is not the witty rhymes one writes only to get attention or woo another, not that there’s anything wrong with wooing with poetry, I’ve done that too, but if that is your only reason for writing poetry then...you’re not really a poet. You are an imposter, an imposter with the “look” and feel of a poet, but with none of the true heart and substance that goes with the ‘title’. Poetry is the world in words, looked at from your view at that time, born of heart and inspiration that seems to overwhelm the writer as it hits them like half a brick slamming at the temple.
Poetry is growth and self-discovery. Its pain, excitement, peace, love, anger, anticipation, fore/after-thought, fear, faith, strength and joy trapped in text and verbal coding attempting to decipher for the human condition. It doesn’t even have to contain conventional sentences, diction, or even words at all.
“Poetry isn’t what I do; it’s who I am...”
It’s how I speak, relate, and communicate with the world.
Poetry isn’t just ‘now’ or ‘then’ or ‘whenever’. Poetry is, and it will never be again – like a desert rose.
Poetry is not a special hat or beads or style of dress. Poetry is not a trend.
Poetry is...
Poetry is a way of life, a culture... poetry is more, so much more than you can hope to ever scribble down or trot over during a random group ‘word pass’ or ‘Jam Session’. Poetry is life. Poetry is more...but you still try to write it – that’s what makes you a blessing unto those that care to hear you out; that’s what makes you an inspiration, a messenger...a poet.
This is not at all everything that poetry is. Poetry is what it is because of how within it we are free to be ourselves; and that's the point, poetry is about being true to you - screw what everybody else thinks or says. Poetry is my Life, my Voice, my Family, my Friends. Poetry is truth ~ as i see it.
Friday 29 May 2009
Thursday 14 May 2009
Just A Droplet....
It was there, clinging on to the edge of the leaf and was about to fall, fall into the little puddle of water below.
The Droplet.
Yes, the droplet was ready to give up and surrender its existence to the little puddle below. But something made it cling on, just that little bit longer.
Perhaps a desire to stay that fraction of a second more in company of the green leaf. The same green leaf that held it, nurtured it and was now ready to offer it to the little society of droplets underneath.
What was it? Just a droplet!
Where did I come from? No one knows. Perhaps a fog, a dew, an overnight drizzle perhaps from nowhere but it was now here.
It existed and existed with a distinct identity. An identity that was now to be submerged into the flow of millions to be lost.
Reluctantly, the droplet left the shelter of the leaf. All the time it went down, it pointed towards its once safe, soft and sure shelter. And then with a little whimp it dropped into the puddle.
We don't know what strength the droplet had in its heart or what amount of agony or what purpose it set itself to make it so heavy. As it fell, it created a huge ripple all around it.
It was the sign of revolution.
It said that it was here to make changes, to transform the society of droplets into the way it learnt intuitively from the soul of the world. To live with a distinct identity.
But, something else happened. The ripple it sent around gradually died out and with time, silently the pool of droplets engulfed it. And its existence was lost.
The water in the puddle never remained the same again.
The droplet fell, the ripple was created, the mud was churned, and the colour of the society of droplets changed forever.
We may be a droplet in an ocean of people, but it requires only one to churn what lies within us and change the course of our destiny...
The Droplet.
Yes, the droplet was ready to give up and surrender its existence to the little puddle below. But something made it cling on, just that little bit longer.
Perhaps a desire to stay that fraction of a second more in company of the green leaf. The same green leaf that held it, nurtured it and was now ready to offer it to the little society of droplets underneath.
What was it? Just a droplet!
Where did I come from? No one knows. Perhaps a fog, a dew, an overnight drizzle perhaps from nowhere but it was now here.
It existed and existed with a distinct identity. An identity that was now to be submerged into the flow of millions to be lost.
Reluctantly, the droplet left the shelter of the leaf. All the time it went down, it pointed towards its once safe, soft and sure shelter. And then with a little whimp it dropped into the puddle.
We don't know what strength the droplet had in its heart or what amount of agony or what purpose it set itself to make it so heavy. As it fell, it created a huge ripple all around it.
It was the sign of revolution.
It said that it was here to make changes, to transform the society of droplets into the way it learnt intuitively from the soul of the world. To live with a distinct identity.
But, something else happened. The ripple it sent around gradually died out and with time, silently the pool of droplets engulfed it. And its existence was lost.
The water in the puddle never remained the same again.
The droplet fell, the ripple was created, the mud was churned, and the colour of the society of droplets changed forever.
We may be a droplet in an ocean of people, but it requires only one to churn what lies within us and change the course of our destiny...
Friday 17 April 2009
Ever wondered what Love is...?
What is love?
Is it something you can only truly find in one person?
Is there really someone out there made just for you and what are the chances of you finding him/her?
Why is it so hard to figure out?
These are all questions that we've all been asked before and want to know the answer.
'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds or bends with the remover to remove. Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.' Does that make any sense to you?
Personally, I think it's saying that love is something that lasts for ever and it's something that cannot be changed no matter through what ever difficulty or obstacle, or else it's not actually love.
Or, more likely, it means that love does not seek to change another person to one's own ideals, but accepts his/her love for who they are, as they are. Personal improvement is another story, but as far as personality changes go, I believe they remain unchanged and we accept because we love.
Love is not a fantasy or a feeling, it is as immortal as immaculate truth. Love is when you can say anything around the person and not feel embarrassed or weird. You never feel awkward but like you are always safe. It's like when a new born baby looks into its mother's eyes and lays all it's trust in her to take care of him and to raise him well. Am I still making sense?
My ex boyfriend once got down on his knees in the middle of one of our many fights and shouted, "I am nothing special, just a common man with common thoughts and I've lead a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten but in one respect, I have succeeded as gloriously as anyone who has ever lived, I have loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, that has always been enough."
It's corny but it made me cry and then I knew that he really loved me, he said it before but something in my gut just told me that he really loved me.
Is love something that has to last forever? Or can we experience love in a matter of seconds, days, or months? If a relationship breaks down, does the feeling of love for that person ever leave you - at this point I am not so sure.
What about the love we feel for our family? The love for a family is supposed to be unconditional, something you are born with, but try and remember a time when a family member did something and you realised how much you loved them - think about that feeling, you weren't born with that - you learn that through experience.
No one will ever be able to explain what love is to you, and when you think that they do it right, you'll find out that their version is nothing else but a small piece of what it actually is, because there is no one on the face of the earth that can describe everything about love, there aren't enough words.
You'll find out what love is for yourself, even if you don't know what to expect, when it hits you, you'll know exactly what it is.
Is it something you can only truly find in one person?
Is there really someone out there made just for you and what are the chances of you finding him/her?
Why is it so hard to figure out?
These are all questions that we've all been asked before and want to know the answer.
'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds or bends with the remover to remove. Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.' Does that make any sense to you?
Personally, I think it's saying that love is something that lasts for ever and it's something that cannot be changed no matter through what ever difficulty or obstacle, or else it's not actually love.
Or, more likely, it means that love does not seek to change another person to one's own ideals, but accepts his/her love for who they are, as they are. Personal improvement is another story, but as far as personality changes go, I believe they remain unchanged and we accept because we love.
Love is not a fantasy or a feeling, it is as immortal as immaculate truth. Love is when you can say anything around the person and not feel embarrassed or weird. You never feel awkward but like you are always safe. It's like when a new born baby looks into its mother's eyes and lays all it's trust in her to take care of him and to raise him well. Am I still making sense?
My ex boyfriend once got down on his knees in the middle of one of our many fights and shouted, "I am nothing special, just a common man with common thoughts and I've lead a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten but in one respect, I have succeeded as gloriously as anyone who has ever lived, I have loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, that has always been enough."
It's corny but it made me cry and then I knew that he really loved me, he said it before but something in my gut just told me that he really loved me.
Is love something that has to last forever? Or can we experience love in a matter of seconds, days, or months? If a relationship breaks down, does the feeling of love for that person ever leave you - at this point I am not so sure.
What about the love we feel for our family? The love for a family is supposed to be unconditional, something you are born with, but try and remember a time when a family member did something and you realised how much you loved them - think about that feeling, you weren't born with that - you learn that through experience.
No one will ever be able to explain what love is to you, and when you think that they do it right, you'll find out that their version is nothing else but a small piece of what it actually is, because there is no one on the face of the earth that can describe everything about love, there aren't enough words.
You'll find out what love is for yourself, even if you don't know what to expect, when it hits you, you'll know exactly what it is.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Here's a little something....
Here's a little something that I wrote, that I like to read when I need a little pick me up when things are being not so nice.
Hope you enjoy:
Lying on the cold table
Incomplete, Unfinished.
Tossed aside with frustration
Not to be thought about again.
Waiting on the dirty ground
Patiently, Faithfully.
Hoping to be seen,
To be touched, and bring satisfaction.
One day a connection will be made
And life will be complete.
With no missing pieces, but a perfect picture.
Along with a smile and a sigh of relief.
Until this day there will be more waiting,
Hoping, and Disappointment.
But in the end it will be worthwhile.
So take a deep breath and look around.
Just remember that anything is possible, with a little smile, dedication and most importantly BELIEF.
Short & Simple post today,
Sue.........x
Hope you enjoy:
Lying on the cold table
Incomplete, Unfinished.
Tossed aside with frustration
Not to be thought about again.
Waiting on the dirty ground
Patiently, Faithfully.
Hoping to be seen,
To be touched, and bring satisfaction.
One day a connection will be made
And life will be complete.
With no missing pieces, but a perfect picture.
Along with a smile and a sigh of relief.
Until this day there will be more waiting,
Hoping, and Disappointment.
But in the end it will be worthwhile.
So take a deep breath and look around.
Just remember that anything is possible, with a little smile, dedication and most importantly BELIEF.
Short & Simple post today,
Sue.........x
Wednesday 8 April 2009
Overcoming The Block...
The award for the most perplexing feeling of all time must undoubtedly be presented to Writer’s Block, for there is truly nothing quite so stressing as an empty pen poised above paper. It is maddening when the last few drops of shampoo cling to the bottle, slowly rolling down the sides in lengthy procession, yet never fully greeting the opening of the bottle. Likewise, being unable to efficiently translate one’s frame of mind into a flow of written words is the utmost sensation of insanity. Though the troubles created by Writer’s Block are many, be not alarmed, for the solutions are not few.
It is unquestioned that Writer’s Block creates myriad problems. First is an issue of time—there’s that paper due in exactly four hours, and there’s that timed essay which will be snatched away as soon as the bell rings, or the deadline fast approaching like a tiger chasing prey. Not being able to compose one’s thoughts effectively and in a timely manner poses a significant obstacle towards completing certain assignments and achieving the desired reward, whether it be grades or publication. Another dilemma is the agitation, caused either by that particular time-crunching experience or just by the fact that it is a categorical imperative to complete the piece; to do otherwise would be a complete violation of values. At this juncture, many would cease to write, but for those who cannot lay down the pen upon an unfinished essay, the distress at this point may be unbearable.
So we arrive at the long awaited question: how to overcome Writer’s Block? The first measures ought to be to limiting disturbances that could inhibit the process of writing: cease the piercing blares of radio and television and exit the distracting realms of Social Networking sites and Instant Messenger. Oh, and don’t forget to turn off the strobe light. Another method of coping is to break the interminable pressure by pursuing another activity, then coming back to write. Experts also recommend practicing by regularly responding to spontaneous essay prompts or spending time to freely jot down thoughts that may settle in the mind. Other than that, one approach that has greatly assisted me has been to peruse the writings of others for inspiration. Oftentimes, I will find that after realizing the rhythm of another author’s writing style, I can much easier resume my own. Plus, I am rejuvenated with further ideas.
Though infinitely irritating, Writer’s Block should not always be viewed with negativity, for many have empirically reaped its benefits (what? There are benefits?). The music group Chicago, for example, wrote the hit “25 or 6 to 4” when their juices of creativity had but evaporated, and the movie Shakespeare in Love builds around the idea of Writer’s Block as its theme… Not to mention that this essay itself was the fruit of an extended period of distressed brain wracking. Additionally, Writer’s Block provides insight into individual weaknesses that might not have been revealed otherwise, paving the path to improvement. Why did the obstruction take place? Is it a certain period of the day or under a certain topic that the block occurs? Having the experience of being unable to write is crucial to answering these questions and is the prerequisite to solving similar situations in the future.
Writer’s Block, though the root of many a complication, seems not so strenuous after all. The key is to do anything it takes to overcome it, and once it is overcome, the best has yet to arrive. Now the incomparable elation I feel in completing this article, on the other hand, is one of the best feelings in the world. That, however, is a story to be told another day—if I can just get over my Writer’s Block.
It is unquestioned that Writer’s Block creates myriad problems. First is an issue of time—there’s that paper due in exactly four hours, and there’s that timed essay which will be snatched away as soon as the bell rings, or the deadline fast approaching like a tiger chasing prey. Not being able to compose one’s thoughts effectively and in a timely manner poses a significant obstacle towards completing certain assignments and achieving the desired reward, whether it be grades or publication. Another dilemma is the agitation, caused either by that particular time-crunching experience or just by the fact that it is a categorical imperative to complete the piece; to do otherwise would be a complete violation of values. At this juncture, many would cease to write, but for those who cannot lay down the pen upon an unfinished essay, the distress at this point may be unbearable.
So we arrive at the long awaited question: how to overcome Writer’s Block? The first measures ought to be to limiting disturbances that could inhibit the process of writing: cease the piercing blares of radio and television and exit the distracting realms of Social Networking sites and Instant Messenger. Oh, and don’t forget to turn off the strobe light. Another method of coping is to break the interminable pressure by pursuing another activity, then coming back to write. Experts also recommend practicing by regularly responding to spontaneous essay prompts or spending time to freely jot down thoughts that may settle in the mind. Other than that, one approach that has greatly assisted me has been to peruse the writings of others for inspiration. Oftentimes, I will find that after realizing the rhythm of another author’s writing style, I can much easier resume my own. Plus, I am rejuvenated with further ideas.
Though infinitely irritating, Writer’s Block should not always be viewed with negativity, for many have empirically reaped its benefits (what? There are benefits?). The music group Chicago, for example, wrote the hit “25 or 6 to 4” when their juices of creativity had but evaporated, and the movie Shakespeare in Love builds around the idea of Writer’s Block as its theme… Not to mention that this essay itself was the fruit of an extended period of distressed brain wracking. Additionally, Writer’s Block provides insight into individual weaknesses that might not have been revealed otherwise, paving the path to improvement. Why did the obstruction take place? Is it a certain period of the day or under a certain topic that the block occurs? Having the experience of being unable to write is crucial to answering these questions and is the prerequisite to solving similar situations in the future.
Writer’s Block, though the root of many a complication, seems not so strenuous after all. The key is to do anything it takes to overcome it, and once it is overcome, the best has yet to arrive. Now the incomparable elation I feel in completing this article, on the other hand, is one of the best feelings in the world. That, however, is a story to be told another day—if I can just get over my Writer’s Block.
Saturday 28 March 2009
You asked me what I want....
Well that is quite a question...
I want to fall in love with you, I want to so badly. I want to be there for you in every way imaginable. I want to hold your hand and stand by your side through the trials and tribulations that are thrown in your way. I want to be there to help you celebrate your victories. I want to be there for you from beginning to end. I want to be the person you trust the most and confide in, I'd give anything to carry that responsibility. I don't want to betray you; I want the capability to be utterly honest and trustworthy to you.
I want to be the shoulder you go to when you need one for support. I want to be the small and frail set of arms you long for when you need a hug. I want to be the person you seek out when you need to be showered with affection. I want to be there waiting for you while you're gone. I want to be the one longing to come back to you when I'm gone. I want to give you everything I have, my heart, my body, my soul, my love and devotion. I want you to look past the fact that I'm broken or defective goods and love me anyway. I don't care about the demons you may have on your back or your little imperfections; to me they make you perfect. I don't care if you have a past or enough baggage to sink a nation…I do too and I want to carry it all with you (not for you.)
I want to snuggle with you at night, smelling your T-shirt and hugging up as close to you as I can. I want to not want to let you go. I want to touch your face tenderly and cover it with feathery kisses. I want to run my thumb softly along your eyelashes while you're sleeping. I want to become irritated with your snoring and talking in your sleep until I hear you mumble my name. I want to complain about your cold feet touching me at night or fight with you over the covers. I want to send your ass packing to the couch. I want to love every fibre of your being, because they make you who you are, and I want to love you. I want to go to you when I'm upset and hurt just to be engulfed in your arms. I think I'd feel safer there than anywhere else. I want that feeling of security I know you can give me. I want to break down crying, completely heartbroken only to have you mend me back together just by holding me close and whispering to me reassuringly. I want to give you peace.
I want to laugh my ass off at you and your goofiness. I want to listen to your corny jokes and your terrible impersonations because they really are funny even though I don't want to admit it. I want you to snicker at me and call me weird nicknames because of my unconventional habits. I want to form as many inside jokes with you as I can and remember them all just so I can send you random messages throughout the day that won't make sense to anyone but us. I want you to laugh at the messages until you cry and when your coworkers or friends ask what's so funny, you can't explain it, you just laugh until they think you've gone insane. I want to be the one to make you smile. I want to talk politics with you and debate the meanings of life and love. I want to develop our own philosophies together. I want to make important and life changing decisions with you.
I want to do favours for you, saying: "Ok…but you owe me," not because I actually want something, it just means I'll get to spend more time with you. I want to get so mad at you sometimes that I end up feeling ashamed of myself and ask for forgiveness even though it actually was your fault. I want you to do the same with me. I want you to roll your eyes at me when I get on your nerves, forcing me to pinch you in retaliation. I want you to pinch me back. I want to get into pinching wars with you. I want you to tell me when I'm doing something wrong or annoying (just so I can pinch you back yet again to get even.) I want to wrestle with you in the living room. I want to land on top and pin you down, and gloat about how I won even though we both know you let me just so you could have a 'nice view'.
I'd like to be able to lay my head on your shoulder not because I'm sleepy, but because I get to be closer to you in a sneaky way. I want you to hug me from behind and seductively kiss my shoulder. I want to bury my face in your neck and tickle you unexpectedly with my eyelashes. I want you to call me an idiot for doing something, followed by: "but for some odd reason I love you anyway." I want to spend an entire Saturday in bed with you. I want to make memories with you; good ones, bad ones, sweet ones, funny ones, ridiculous ones, naughty ones…I just want to share them with you and you alone.
I want to hurt in your absence; I want that pain deep inside my chest. I want to feel like I'm the loneliest person in the world when you're gone. I want the excitement I know I'm bound to feel upon your return. I want the knowledge that I belong to you and you belong to me. I want you to know you always have someone to turn to and I want for us to be together even if some people may not agree with our union. I want the stress and frustration that come with the difficulties in a relationship because it means you come attached. I want you to want to be with me despite all the factors that may be stacked against us. I want to fight those factors with you. I may not want to spend the rest of my life with you just yet, but I want to consider it someday. I want you to want a future. I want to see you succeed in life, not just financially, but I want to see you happy and enjoying life to its fullest. I want the reassurance that you'll live up to your potential and become someone that'd make me even more proud of you than I already am.
I want to experience young love with you. I want for us to go to public places just to see the elderly couples glare at us and bicker about 'the youth of today' with our tattoos and piercings and 'horrid rock music'. I want you to laugh at me when I say 'that'll be us someday'. I want to spend an entire day washing your car only to end up with us dirtier than the car was to begin with. I want to spray you in the face with the hose and then have you chase after me and tackle me to the ground. I want to stay up all night watching horror movies with you until we're both too scared to go to sleep. I want to sit quietly and listen to you sing along to whatever is playing. I don't think anyone could calm me like that the way you do.. I want the songs to make me cry and then have you gently wipe away the tears. I want to jump on you afterwards and take advantage of you (none too gently I might add.) I want you to want me to take advantage of you. I want you to take advantage of me in return.
I want us to sit in comfortable silence while I write about you without your knowledge. I want you to know what I'm actually doing, but stay silent so as not to ruin the moment. I want long talks with you about the dumbest things as in subliminal messaging in cartoons. I want to watch you laugh and smile, and because of this I want to fall in love with you all over again. I want to undress you with my eyes.
I want you to tell me I don't need to wear makeup because I'm beautiful without it even though we both know if I went outside looking the way I do in the mornings I'd scare small children. I want you to talk me out of getting my nose pierced, but end up taking me to get my first tattoo instead. I want to fight over little things with you like what radio station to play or what channel to watch on the TV. I want to argue with you over whether to go to Burger King or KFC until we finally compromise on McDonald's even though neither one of us likes their food. I want to hate your video games the way you hate my feminist music. I want you to teach me how to play Mortal Combat only to have me accidentally beat you. I want to laugh at you while you rant about 'beginner's luck' and say: 'it was a fluke'. I want to get competitive with you. I want to place bets with you over random things.
I want to go dancing with you. I want you to be overprotective of me and make sure I don't get run over by a hoard of drunk guys. I want to get into an argument in the middle of the place over some stupid or meaningless thing. I want the make-up sex afterwards when we get home. I want your friends to like me, I want to like them. I want to watch your practices. Basically, I want a life with you in it. I want a relationship with nobody but you. I know I'm normally picky and have a lot of faults, but you have touched my heart in a way no one has before and all I want right now is for you to accept me. I will be there for you and I will love you unconditionally because I want to fall in love with you and you alone and I believe you're worth the effort. I believe everyone deserves love, including us, and you're the only one I want to fall in love with.
I want to make you feel loved, accepted, cherished, appreciated, and far more special than you can ever imagine because that's what I want you to mean to me.
Do you want to know what I really want?
I want to be brave enough to tell you everything I have mentioned above....
But instead I will answer your question with a different answer, an answer that wont make you run a mile, an answer that wont expose my true feelings, that wont strip me bare for you too see my true colours, just a simple answer:
"What do you want...?"
"I want ice cream.."
And the world will continue as normal...
I want to fall in love with you, I want to so badly. I want to be there for you in every way imaginable. I want to hold your hand and stand by your side through the trials and tribulations that are thrown in your way. I want to be there to help you celebrate your victories. I want to be there for you from beginning to end. I want to be the person you trust the most and confide in, I'd give anything to carry that responsibility. I don't want to betray you; I want the capability to be utterly honest and trustworthy to you.
I want to be the shoulder you go to when you need one for support. I want to be the small and frail set of arms you long for when you need a hug. I want to be the person you seek out when you need to be showered with affection. I want to be there waiting for you while you're gone. I want to be the one longing to come back to you when I'm gone. I want to give you everything I have, my heart, my body, my soul, my love and devotion. I want you to look past the fact that I'm broken or defective goods and love me anyway. I don't care about the demons you may have on your back or your little imperfections; to me they make you perfect. I don't care if you have a past or enough baggage to sink a nation…I do too and I want to carry it all with you (not for you.)
I want to snuggle with you at night, smelling your T-shirt and hugging up as close to you as I can. I want to not want to let you go. I want to touch your face tenderly and cover it with feathery kisses. I want to run my thumb softly along your eyelashes while you're sleeping. I want to become irritated with your snoring and talking in your sleep until I hear you mumble my name. I want to complain about your cold feet touching me at night or fight with you over the covers. I want to send your ass packing to the couch. I want to love every fibre of your being, because they make you who you are, and I want to love you. I want to go to you when I'm upset and hurt just to be engulfed in your arms. I think I'd feel safer there than anywhere else. I want that feeling of security I know you can give me. I want to break down crying, completely heartbroken only to have you mend me back together just by holding me close and whispering to me reassuringly. I want to give you peace.
I want to laugh my ass off at you and your goofiness. I want to listen to your corny jokes and your terrible impersonations because they really are funny even though I don't want to admit it. I want you to snicker at me and call me weird nicknames because of my unconventional habits. I want to form as many inside jokes with you as I can and remember them all just so I can send you random messages throughout the day that won't make sense to anyone but us. I want you to laugh at the messages until you cry and when your coworkers or friends ask what's so funny, you can't explain it, you just laugh until they think you've gone insane. I want to be the one to make you smile. I want to talk politics with you and debate the meanings of life and love. I want to develop our own philosophies together. I want to make important and life changing decisions with you.
I want to do favours for you, saying: "Ok…but you owe me," not because I actually want something, it just means I'll get to spend more time with you. I want to get so mad at you sometimes that I end up feeling ashamed of myself and ask for forgiveness even though it actually was your fault. I want you to do the same with me. I want you to roll your eyes at me when I get on your nerves, forcing me to pinch you in retaliation. I want you to pinch me back. I want to get into pinching wars with you. I want you to tell me when I'm doing something wrong or annoying (just so I can pinch you back yet again to get even.) I want to wrestle with you in the living room. I want to land on top and pin you down, and gloat about how I won even though we both know you let me just so you could have a 'nice view'.
I'd like to be able to lay my head on your shoulder not because I'm sleepy, but because I get to be closer to you in a sneaky way. I want you to hug me from behind and seductively kiss my shoulder. I want to bury my face in your neck and tickle you unexpectedly with my eyelashes. I want you to call me an idiot for doing something, followed by: "but for some odd reason I love you anyway." I want to spend an entire Saturday in bed with you. I want to make memories with you; good ones, bad ones, sweet ones, funny ones, ridiculous ones, naughty ones…I just want to share them with you and you alone.
I want to hurt in your absence; I want that pain deep inside my chest. I want to feel like I'm the loneliest person in the world when you're gone. I want the excitement I know I'm bound to feel upon your return. I want the knowledge that I belong to you and you belong to me. I want you to know you always have someone to turn to and I want for us to be together even if some people may not agree with our union. I want the stress and frustration that come with the difficulties in a relationship because it means you come attached. I want you to want to be with me despite all the factors that may be stacked against us. I want to fight those factors with you. I may not want to spend the rest of my life with you just yet, but I want to consider it someday. I want you to want a future. I want to see you succeed in life, not just financially, but I want to see you happy and enjoying life to its fullest. I want the reassurance that you'll live up to your potential and become someone that'd make me even more proud of you than I already am.
I want to experience young love with you. I want for us to go to public places just to see the elderly couples glare at us and bicker about 'the youth of today' with our tattoos and piercings and 'horrid rock music'. I want you to laugh at me when I say 'that'll be us someday'. I want to spend an entire day washing your car only to end up with us dirtier than the car was to begin with. I want to spray you in the face with the hose and then have you chase after me and tackle me to the ground. I want to stay up all night watching horror movies with you until we're both too scared to go to sleep. I want to sit quietly and listen to you sing along to whatever is playing. I don't think anyone could calm me like that the way you do.. I want the songs to make me cry and then have you gently wipe away the tears. I want to jump on you afterwards and take advantage of you (none too gently I might add.) I want you to want me to take advantage of you. I want you to take advantage of me in return.
I want us to sit in comfortable silence while I write about you without your knowledge. I want you to know what I'm actually doing, but stay silent so as not to ruin the moment. I want long talks with you about the dumbest things as in subliminal messaging in cartoons. I want to watch you laugh and smile, and because of this I want to fall in love with you all over again. I want to undress you with my eyes.
I want you to tell me I don't need to wear makeup because I'm beautiful without it even though we both know if I went outside looking the way I do in the mornings I'd scare small children. I want you to talk me out of getting my nose pierced, but end up taking me to get my first tattoo instead. I want to fight over little things with you like what radio station to play or what channel to watch on the TV. I want to argue with you over whether to go to Burger King or KFC until we finally compromise on McDonald's even though neither one of us likes their food. I want to hate your video games the way you hate my feminist music. I want you to teach me how to play Mortal Combat only to have me accidentally beat you. I want to laugh at you while you rant about 'beginner's luck' and say: 'it was a fluke'. I want to get competitive with you. I want to place bets with you over random things.
I want to go dancing with you. I want you to be overprotective of me and make sure I don't get run over by a hoard of drunk guys. I want to get into an argument in the middle of the place over some stupid or meaningless thing. I want the make-up sex afterwards when we get home. I want your friends to like me, I want to like them. I want to watch your practices. Basically, I want a life with you in it. I want a relationship with nobody but you. I know I'm normally picky and have a lot of faults, but you have touched my heart in a way no one has before and all I want right now is for you to accept me. I will be there for you and I will love you unconditionally because I want to fall in love with you and you alone and I believe you're worth the effort. I believe everyone deserves love, including us, and you're the only one I want to fall in love with.
I want to make you feel loved, accepted, cherished, appreciated, and far more special than you can ever imagine because that's what I want you to mean to me.
Do you want to know what I really want?
I want to be brave enough to tell you everything I have mentioned above....
But instead I will answer your question with a different answer, an answer that wont make you run a mile, an answer that wont expose my true feelings, that wont strip me bare for you too see my true colours, just a simple answer:
"What do you want...?"
"I want ice cream.."
And the world will continue as normal...
Sunday 22 March 2009
words are intriguing....or is it our intriguing imagination that make words seem intriguing...
Do you want to know what my favourite thing is?
Do you want to know what I like the best?
Words.
Yes. You read that right.
No need to make an appointment with the optician. You don’t have to spend an hour with a psychiatrist. You aren’t going insane!
Yes, I said "words".
So tell your shrink to grow a little and your optometrist to open his eyes, because my guilty secret is out!
I can hide it no longer!
I know there will be much astonishment and many flabbergasted expressions, but this is a catastrophe that I must face…
Right after I revel in my amused reaction to the word “flabbergasted.” Goodness gracious. I want to meet whoever it was that came up with that one. Just have some tea and crumpets for an hour or so. Imagine our conversation! Is that one lump of silly slang, Sir, or two?
I could just go on forever about the awesome magnificence that is “words.” Whether we form them in CAPS or slant the letters to one side or place a line beneath them or brackets [around] them, we can only love each and every word that is scribbled down on paper or expelled into the air on the breath of conversation!
Can you understand it now?
Grasp it?
I'm not so sure. I can see you struggling in the waters of comprehension.
Shall I throw you a line and reel you in? Let’s.
There are all kinds of categories for all kinds of words, you know. Pay attention! I am going to give you a few.
Some words are short.
Some words are rather gargantuan and lengthy in size.
Some are perspicaciously intelligent.
Others are sort a’ dumb.
Words are often pleasantly poetic but also raucously discordant.
Oh, I think I felt a nibble.
I am going to let you in on another secret.
Come closer so I can whisper it into your ear.
You know which words I like the best?
English words.
Uh-oh. We think I scared the fish away with that one.
I’ll have to try some different bait. Really!
Come and contemplate this with me.
In what other language but English can a knight sleep in the night?
Or fight a bear with his bare hands?
Where he can wear not just one sword if he chooses to but two too?
You’re scratching your head. But we can’t stop now!
I must continue to write this with my right hand.
Wait, I am wrong.
No, the right hand is right, right?
Speaking of “wrong,” I have just been bothered with thoughts of words that are wrought with letters that refuse to speak. They are as silent as though they were taught by mimes. Not tot mind you, but taught.
Oh! We caught a big one! A 150 pounder at least. Give or take a few ounces. Or is it oz.? Maybe the wicked witch will tell us which one? I thought this was Kansas but perhaps I am mistaken.
I am quite pleased with myself just now. I am finally opening up to the world. Giving it a glimpse of the glamorous goings-on of my magnificent mind. I hope the world is ready for me.
I wouldn’t want to frighten anyone. I know how very comfortable people are when they are lounging in their comfort zone. I want to tell you not to be scared!
I’ll be loud so you can hear me coming. I promise. Scout’s honor. Honour too.
What? Some people are just so picky. They absolutely must have the right colour. The left one just won’t do. Trust me. I know.
I cut the knot with the knife while kneeling on my knees, but the “k” will never tell.
The fish is starting to jump around in the bucket. I think this is all just too much for my fans to absorb.
Now I feel as unnecessary as the “p” in “coup.” No amount of wishing will make it rhyme with soup.
I’ll have to throw it back. My apologies. Perhaps a drought will save you from drowning.
But only if you spell it write.
Intrigued....
Do you want to know what I like the best?
Words.
Yes. You read that right.
No need to make an appointment with the optician. You don’t have to spend an hour with a psychiatrist. You aren’t going insane!
Yes, I said "words".
So tell your shrink to grow a little and your optometrist to open his eyes, because my guilty secret is out!
I can hide it no longer!
I know there will be much astonishment and many flabbergasted expressions, but this is a catastrophe that I must face…
Right after I revel in my amused reaction to the word “flabbergasted.” Goodness gracious. I want to meet whoever it was that came up with that one. Just have some tea and crumpets for an hour or so. Imagine our conversation! Is that one lump of silly slang, Sir, or two?
I could just go on forever about the awesome magnificence that is “words.” Whether we form them in CAPS or slant the letters to one side or place a line beneath them or brackets [around] them, we can only love each and every word that is scribbled down on paper or expelled into the air on the breath of conversation!
Can you understand it now?
Grasp it?
I'm not so sure. I can see you struggling in the waters of comprehension.
Shall I throw you a line and reel you in? Let’s.
There are all kinds of categories for all kinds of words, you know. Pay attention! I am going to give you a few.
Some words are short.
Some words are rather gargantuan and lengthy in size.
Some are perspicaciously intelligent.
Others are sort a’ dumb.
Words are often pleasantly poetic but also raucously discordant.
Oh, I think I felt a nibble.
I am going to let you in on another secret.
Come closer so I can whisper it into your ear.
You know which words I like the best?
English words.
Uh-oh. We think I scared the fish away with that one.
I’ll have to try some different bait. Really!
Come and contemplate this with me.
In what other language but English can a knight sleep in the night?
Or fight a bear with his bare hands?
Where he can wear not just one sword if he chooses to but two too?
You’re scratching your head. But we can’t stop now!
I must continue to write this with my right hand.
Wait, I am wrong.
No, the right hand is right, right?
Speaking of “wrong,” I have just been bothered with thoughts of words that are wrought with letters that refuse to speak. They are as silent as though they were taught by mimes. Not tot mind you, but taught.
Oh! We caught a big one! A 150 pounder at least. Give or take a few ounces. Or is it oz.? Maybe the wicked witch will tell us which one? I thought this was Kansas but perhaps I am mistaken.
I am quite pleased with myself just now. I am finally opening up to the world. Giving it a glimpse of the glamorous goings-on of my magnificent mind. I hope the world is ready for me.
I wouldn’t want to frighten anyone. I know how very comfortable people are when they are lounging in their comfort zone. I want to tell you not to be scared!
I’ll be loud so you can hear me coming. I promise. Scout’s honor. Honour too.
What? Some people are just so picky. They absolutely must have the right colour. The left one just won’t do. Trust me. I know.
I cut the knot with the knife while kneeling on my knees, but the “k” will never tell.
The fish is starting to jump around in the bucket. I think this is all just too much for my fans to absorb.
Now I feel as unnecessary as the “p” in “coup.” No amount of wishing will make it rhyme with soup.
I’ll have to throw it back. My apologies. Perhaps a drought will save you from drowning.
But only if you spell it write.
Intrigued....
Wednesday 11 March 2009
I just write....to write
I just write.
I want my fingers to speak in cipher and symbol, in character and punctuation.
I want them to speed across an empty slate, filling it with idea and passion.
I want others to read it, and I want them – for a brief fleeting moment – to see what I see. Understand the world through my eyes, and be brightened, saddened, twisted, bent, gyred, spun, and transformed.
It is not ego that drives me so – there is nothing inside me so great that I must stop at nothing to get it out, no explosion of math and science and passion that threatens to tear me at my seams.
It is not sadness, madness, or gladness that makes me write these things – it isn’t some overwhelming fire of humanity. My life is not a particularly interesting one, my struggles not particularly unique.
And yet – there is something here. Something inside me, chewing away at every thought – fattening like a worm in an apple – driving some arcane wheels in my head.
Turning some dust-covered gears and animating my fingers to write, write, and write.
It is through this writing that you and I can grasp up to the heavens of our own design, and sit for a while, enjoying the gentle passage of time, like two idle lovers caught up in the healthy currents of life.
I can turn to you, and as my fingers speak to you in confidential tones, you can see things. Simple things sometimes, the gentle swell of sea on a shore, the delicate sway of a single strand of grass caught in the wind, eyes shining with starlight.
Complex things too: an ant-hill overflowing with activity, a million times a million engines of desire performing those tasks which define them. I will say: Can you see this all? Isn’t it beautiful? And then you might understand why I write.
Then you might see what it really is that drives me forward, as surely as an electron spins itself into eternity. The ants, the beach, the grass, the people, the laughter, the light, the stars, the everything.
Things which are neither bad, nor good – nor do I wish to ever think in such black and white, love and hate, destroy and create terms. Things, which just are - which in our tremendous winding up of life, we seem to miss.
We don’t treasure those tiny moments of time where the only thing that should matter is that single blade of grass, or that lovers shy glance, or that wave breaking gently on the shore.
Torpid currents of life swirl us into balls of hate and envy, and darkness, and those moments are past. But they give birth to more light and laughter, and we ignore those too – we Hunger too much, we Pain too much. And one might think that my avoidance of the truth – repelling from my words like corresponding magnetic fields – is because I don’t have the truth.
This of course is partially true, just like everything is partially true – just as this phrase itself is partially true. And even before my words swallow themselves in a twisted-eight swirl of infinity – I am still here, and my words still flow, and my purpose still exists.
I don’t write because I mean anything, I don’t write because you mean anything. I write because everything is beautiful and nothing is, simultaneously – as if by a magic that everyone practices but no one understands.
I write because when I write, I trap those lost moments of time like insects in amber, and I hold them up to the brightness and I make available that spark of mankind that is so transient in our busy lives.
I write because I am tired and sad, and frightened and terrible and thirsty. I write because I am happy, joyous and full of love. I write because we are all those things, all of us in our own ways, and because this is one of the few ways in which I may drive it off for a while. One of the few ways I can say Hello to the specter of death that hangs over every dew-drop that hasn’t yet been born, that wreathes me in a crown of my own thorns, and whispers to the sun in words of violet and orange.
I write because it allows me to cheat death at least for one more day, to proclaim in my own little, tiny, fleeting voice that everyone can be a beacon, can be a light in the planes of bleakness, and can Shepard their brothers through the valley of darkness.
Most of all, I just write...to write.
Sue, '09.
I want my fingers to speak in cipher and symbol, in character and punctuation.
I want them to speed across an empty slate, filling it with idea and passion.
I want others to read it, and I want them – for a brief fleeting moment – to see what I see. Understand the world through my eyes, and be brightened, saddened, twisted, bent, gyred, spun, and transformed.
It is not ego that drives me so – there is nothing inside me so great that I must stop at nothing to get it out, no explosion of math and science and passion that threatens to tear me at my seams.
It is not sadness, madness, or gladness that makes me write these things – it isn’t some overwhelming fire of humanity. My life is not a particularly interesting one, my struggles not particularly unique.
And yet – there is something here. Something inside me, chewing away at every thought – fattening like a worm in an apple – driving some arcane wheels in my head.
Turning some dust-covered gears and animating my fingers to write, write, and write.
It is through this writing that you and I can grasp up to the heavens of our own design, and sit for a while, enjoying the gentle passage of time, like two idle lovers caught up in the healthy currents of life.
I can turn to you, and as my fingers speak to you in confidential tones, you can see things. Simple things sometimes, the gentle swell of sea on a shore, the delicate sway of a single strand of grass caught in the wind, eyes shining with starlight.
Complex things too: an ant-hill overflowing with activity, a million times a million engines of desire performing those tasks which define them. I will say: Can you see this all? Isn’t it beautiful? And then you might understand why I write.
Then you might see what it really is that drives me forward, as surely as an electron spins itself into eternity. The ants, the beach, the grass, the people, the laughter, the light, the stars, the everything.
Things which are neither bad, nor good – nor do I wish to ever think in such black and white, love and hate, destroy and create terms. Things, which just are - which in our tremendous winding up of life, we seem to miss.
We don’t treasure those tiny moments of time where the only thing that should matter is that single blade of grass, or that lovers shy glance, or that wave breaking gently on the shore.
Torpid currents of life swirl us into balls of hate and envy, and darkness, and those moments are past. But they give birth to more light and laughter, and we ignore those too – we Hunger too much, we Pain too much. And one might think that my avoidance of the truth – repelling from my words like corresponding magnetic fields – is because I don’t have the truth.
This of course is partially true, just like everything is partially true – just as this phrase itself is partially true. And even before my words swallow themselves in a twisted-eight swirl of infinity – I am still here, and my words still flow, and my purpose still exists.
I don’t write because I mean anything, I don’t write because you mean anything. I write because everything is beautiful and nothing is, simultaneously – as if by a magic that everyone practices but no one understands.
I write because when I write, I trap those lost moments of time like insects in amber, and I hold them up to the brightness and I make available that spark of mankind that is so transient in our busy lives.
I write because I am tired and sad, and frightened and terrible and thirsty. I write because I am happy, joyous and full of love. I write because we are all those things, all of us in our own ways, and because this is one of the few ways in which I may drive it off for a while. One of the few ways I can say Hello to the specter of death that hangs over every dew-drop that hasn’t yet been born, that wreathes me in a crown of my own thorns, and whispers to the sun in words of violet and orange.
I write because it allows me to cheat death at least for one more day, to proclaim in my own little, tiny, fleeting voice that everyone can be a beacon, can be a light in the planes of bleakness, and can Shepard their brothers through the valley of darkness.
Most of all, I just write...to write.
Sue, '09.
Saturday 7 March 2009
Perception....
What is perception...?
Psychological Definition:
Perception is the process of attaining awareness or understanding of sensory information.
So, judging by the above statement, perception is how we see things, how we view the world and the people in it.
This makes me believe that we only perceive the world and the people with our eyes?
Am I correct? Lets explore...
Answer me this question: How do you perceive yourself?
What do you see when you look in the mirror?
Is this perception?
Is this the way the world views you, by the way you look?
Shouldn't perception of a person be based on their actions, their beliefs and their heart.
What do you see when you look into your heart?
Now answer me this: What is the true meaning of perception?
What about peoples perception over time...?
I often wonder, how today or yesterday will look in over a thousand years.
What they would say about our history, Would our great empire fall to dust like many others before it? What kind of system of law would they have compared to ours?
Have we done anything that would make our era stand out, both bad or good. Is there hope in the knowledge that you may have made a mark on this world strong enough to keep the era alive, your voice forever imprinted in the future.
In thousands of years, will they care about the way you looked, or what you wore?
Or will they care about the things you did and said?
Perception of people should not be based on how they look.
Does their hair look pretty, is she wearing just a little bit too much make-up?
Why is the world obsessed with looking beautiful?
Shouldn't we be concentrating more on the way we run our lives, the choices that we make and the people we may affect, now and forever into the future.
I believe perception to be the actions someone decides to take, and the decisions that they decide to make.
Do I have to do my hair everyday to show the world that I am a great person? NO
Do I have to wear the right amount of make-up and perfume everyday to show the world I am worthy? NO
Do I have to watch what I eat for fear of judged in a way nobody should be judged? NO
In the end, does the belief in perception really matter?
No matter how many times I writes these words, and try and convince you that it's what is in your heart that counts - you will still feel the need to look beautiful and to be popular - don't worry I do it too.
People SEE you for who you are, before they get inside your head - and unfortunately that is the way the world is going to role for a very long time....
Just do me one thing,
The next time you put on your make-up or you do your hair....ask yourself this question:
Would I be any less great, if I didn't do this?
Would my day be any less great, if I didn't do this?
Chances are, you have answered no to the above questions.
Just think about how people will perceive you in a thousand years, how do you want to be remembered:
Because you had nice hair, or
Because you changed the world?
Dare to be something great, something you will be remembered for!
Bye guys,
Sue
Psychological Definition:
Perception is the process of attaining awareness or understanding of sensory information.
So, judging by the above statement, perception is how we see things, how we view the world and the people in it.
This makes me believe that we only perceive the world and the people with our eyes?
Am I correct? Lets explore...
Answer me this question: How do you perceive yourself?
What do you see when you look in the mirror?
Is this perception?
Is this the way the world views you, by the way you look?
Shouldn't perception of a person be based on their actions, their beliefs and their heart.
What do you see when you look into your heart?
Now answer me this: What is the true meaning of perception?
What about peoples perception over time...?
I often wonder, how today or yesterday will look in over a thousand years.
What they would say about our history, Would our great empire fall to dust like many others before it? What kind of system of law would they have compared to ours?
Have we done anything that would make our era stand out, both bad or good. Is there hope in the knowledge that you may have made a mark on this world strong enough to keep the era alive, your voice forever imprinted in the future.
In thousands of years, will they care about the way you looked, or what you wore?
Or will they care about the things you did and said?
Perception of people should not be based on how they look.
Does their hair look pretty, is she wearing just a little bit too much make-up?
Why is the world obsessed with looking beautiful?
Shouldn't we be concentrating more on the way we run our lives, the choices that we make and the people we may affect, now and forever into the future.
I believe perception to be the actions someone decides to take, and the decisions that they decide to make.
Do I have to do my hair everyday to show the world that I am a great person? NO
Do I have to wear the right amount of make-up and perfume everyday to show the world I am worthy? NO
Do I have to watch what I eat for fear of judged in a way nobody should be judged? NO
In the end, does the belief in perception really matter?
No matter how many times I writes these words, and try and convince you that it's what is in your heart that counts - you will still feel the need to look beautiful and to be popular - don't worry I do it too.
People SEE you for who you are, before they get inside your head - and unfortunately that is the way the world is going to role for a very long time....
Just do me one thing,
The next time you put on your make-up or you do your hair....ask yourself this question:
Would I be any less great, if I didn't do this?
Would my day be any less great, if I didn't do this?
Chances are, you have answered no to the above questions.
Just think about how people will perceive you in a thousand years, how do you want to be remembered:
Because you had nice hair, or
Because you changed the world?
Dare to be something great, something you will be remembered for!
Bye guys,
Sue
Friday 6 March 2009
Why do people write?
Why do people write?
As I write this post I have the feeling of awesomeness of the phenomena that writing is, the overwhelming urge to put my pen to paper; the stupendous process of thoughts being translated into words; I come to find myself asking, why is it that we write?
Why do we share thoughts, opinions, advises, stories and experiences through the written word, and not just use the word of mouth? And aside from the sole purpose of saving information or knowledge on paper; we tend to express our selves via written words more strongly and accurately than we do vocally.
You can come to know some people better through reading their work; you see, you can never lie to that piece of paper in front of you; and why should you; you can show it love, happiness, joy, hope and it will accept it all, no questions asked. Similarly show hate and that white piece of paper will accept it, show it vengeance, ugliness, evil, perversion and it will still accept it all, also no questions asked. But why do we do it?
We tend to use that generous nature of the white piece of paper, and we scribble on it all of our inmost desires and secrets, jot down all of our fears and hope, write in it our wishes and dreams; and use it to communicate with others of this world. But why do we do it?
Words are magic; civilizations are written in history, and history is written in words, and if not in words, were drawn on walls. Written words are there to stay, to be constant, to always have effect. But why do we do it?
Do you think people are ever afraid to write? There could be a lot of pain or joy that we may never read about. Also why do we choose to read what we do? Is there something that draws you in before, or is it just wanting to see how someone else views the world? For example, why are you reading my blog?
Writing is powerful, it really is. Even just something that is simple can be very moving to someone. Are people running scared because once written those words cannot be undone.
Words can really change to world.
That brings us to my question, why do we write? Do we write, because we have something to say, or do we write because we have too, maybe we write because we have talent to do so, or we write because we just can, I know we definitely write so we can share, share our hopes and dreams, our failures and successes, share our falls and our raise, our defeats and victories, our hate and love, or simply just share our thoughts. Writing is a matter that can be very intimate, like a journal or a personal dairy; or can be very public like a column or an article.
I believe we write because we feel the power of the written words; reading words and hearing them are totally different, when we read the stories we live their worlds, we embrace the heroes, we become the words we read, imagination runs free, not limited by other senses of vision, touch, hearing or even smell. While reading, your world is the extent of your mind, and the mind can cross spaces of time and distance, bend realities and makeup new rules, that we actually can't do. When I read about war, I can imagine my own custom settings of that war, even with all details given to me by the writer, I still can manage to make it my own, while in films, you are limited to what your vision interprets to the brain, if you see a red tank, you cant convince yourself it's blue.
I believe words say and have it all, you can express feelings otherwise unexpressed by sounds, written words are always true, no matter the pretense or the facade been put, you can always find parts of the writer in their own words.
I write these words, to write, because I love writing; I write these words to speak with all you reading this, I write these words to share my feelings.....
So tell me, why do YOU write what you write?
Sue
As I write this post I have the feeling of awesomeness of the phenomena that writing is, the overwhelming urge to put my pen to paper; the stupendous process of thoughts being translated into words; I come to find myself asking, why is it that we write?
Why do we share thoughts, opinions, advises, stories and experiences through the written word, and not just use the word of mouth? And aside from the sole purpose of saving information or knowledge on paper; we tend to express our selves via written words more strongly and accurately than we do vocally.
You can come to know some people better through reading their work; you see, you can never lie to that piece of paper in front of you; and why should you; you can show it love, happiness, joy, hope and it will accept it all, no questions asked. Similarly show hate and that white piece of paper will accept it, show it vengeance, ugliness, evil, perversion and it will still accept it all, also no questions asked. But why do we do it?
We tend to use that generous nature of the white piece of paper, and we scribble on it all of our inmost desires and secrets, jot down all of our fears and hope, write in it our wishes and dreams; and use it to communicate with others of this world. But why do we do it?
Words are magic; civilizations are written in history, and history is written in words, and if not in words, were drawn on walls. Written words are there to stay, to be constant, to always have effect. But why do we do it?
Do you think people are ever afraid to write? There could be a lot of pain or joy that we may never read about. Also why do we choose to read what we do? Is there something that draws you in before, or is it just wanting to see how someone else views the world? For example, why are you reading my blog?
Writing is powerful, it really is. Even just something that is simple can be very moving to someone. Are people running scared because once written those words cannot be undone.
Words can really change to world.
That brings us to my question, why do we write? Do we write, because we have something to say, or do we write because we have too, maybe we write because we have talent to do so, or we write because we just can, I know we definitely write so we can share, share our hopes and dreams, our failures and successes, share our falls and our raise, our defeats and victories, our hate and love, or simply just share our thoughts. Writing is a matter that can be very intimate, like a journal or a personal dairy; or can be very public like a column or an article.
I believe we write because we feel the power of the written words; reading words and hearing them are totally different, when we read the stories we live their worlds, we embrace the heroes, we become the words we read, imagination runs free, not limited by other senses of vision, touch, hearing or even smell. While reading, your world is the extent of your mind, and the mind can cross spaces of time and distance, bend realities and makeup new rules, that we actually can't do. When I read about war, I can imagine my own custom settings of that war, even with all details given to me by the writer, I still can manage to make it my own, while in films, you are limited to what your vision interprets to the brain, if you see a red tank, you cant convince yourself it's blue.
I believe words say and have it all, you can express feelings otherwise unexpressed by sounds, written words are always true, no matter the pretense or the facade been put, you can always find parts of the writer in their own words.
I write these words, to write, because I love writing; I write these words to speak with all you reading this, I write these words to share my feelings.....
So tell me, why do YOU write what you write?
Sue
I love to write...
The ravishing thoughts of a once live mind now dead, echoed with the deafening sound of a heart that bleeds and as the soul laid down to waste, the mortal coil got set to be erased.
Now I know what you are thinking, what's with the depressing start to this post?
If you are, then continue on to know why, and if not, well just enjoy this all the same...
Go over those sentences again, how does it make you feel? Is it a poem, or are they just words, maybe it was never intended to be so, but came out never the less as is.....
Still confused?
Then sit back, for this is a first seat view to the insight of why I sometimes write what I write...
One of the reasons I write, simply is to put a word I like or have been thinking about, onto a page and into a sentence, I would build up a whole story or an article discussing whatever issue, so i can just use that one word, getting the picture now?
If not, well let me try to explain more; can you figure out which word in the above two sentences I like and thus created those sentences to be a crib for this word?
Give it a try, shouldn't be that hard.
I genuinely love to write, I remember my big stupid smile, when I was asked to write an article for an event the company was holding, how happy I was when it got published the next day in the local newspapers, it may not have been published under my name but they were still my words.
I undeniably love to write, when I read works for my friends, and feel how beautiful the written word is and how strong, and that I can be a part of that world, for just a few seconds. Believing in the greatness, or evil, of the words and the pride I get knowing my friends can write such poetry.
I absolutely love to write, when I read the comments on the work I have written, those words of encouragement and support, friendship and love, proud and envey where it all connects, writers and readers alike, a big shout out to those, keep the comments coming guys.
I truly love to write, because in my writings I can say whatever and not give a f**k, I can thrash people, criticise thoughts, fall in love or make up a sci-fi; I can thrill ppl, I can make them sleep; and I can alter lives, I just love how words can alter lives.
I evidently love to write, because I challenge myself with the game of words, I would think up a word and then I would try to build a piece around it, as I have done many times before and as I have done just now in the beginning of this piece.
I love to write, simply because I can. I may not be the next JK Rowling or William Faulkner, I may not be good at all, but I believe it's something I can do, and if I can then I enjoy it.
I love to write.
Next post will be about writing, and why YOU love to write - get thinking of your answers!!
Sue.
Now I know what you are thinking, what's with the depressing start to this post?
If you are, then continue on to know why, and if not, well just enjoy this all the same...
Go over those sentences again, how does it make you feel? Is it a poem, or are they just words, maybe it was never intended to be so, but came out never the less as is.....
Still confused?
Then sit back, for this is a first seat view to the insight of why I sometimes write what I write...
One of the reasons I write, simply is to put a word I like or have been thinking about, onto a page and into a sentence, I would build up a whole story or an article discussing whatever issue, so i can just use that one word, getting the picture now?
If not, well let me try to explain more; can you figure out which word in the above two sentences I like and thus created those sentences to be a crib for this word?
Give it a try, shouldn't be that hard.
I genuinely love to write, I remember my big stupid smile, when I was asked to write an article for an event the company was holding, how happy I was when it got published the next day in the local newspapers, it may not have been published under my name but they were still my words.
I undeniably love to write, when I read works for my friends, and feel how beautiful the written word is and how strong, and that I can be a part of that world, for just a few seconds. Believing in the greatness, or evil, of the words and the pride I get knowing my friends can write such poetry.
I absolutely love to write, when I read the comments on the work I have written, those words of encouragement and support, friendship and love, proud and envey where it all connects, writers and readers alike, a big shout out to those, keep the comments coming guys.
I truly love to write, because in my writings I can say whatever and not give a f**k, I can thrash people, criticise thoughts, fall in love or make up a sci-fi; I can thrill ppl, I can make them sleep; and I can alter lives, I just love how words can alter lives.
I evidently love to write, because I challenge myself with the game of words, I would think up a word and then I would try to build a piece around it, as I have done many times before and as I have done just now in the beginning of this piece.
I love to write, simply because I can. I may not be the next JK Rowling or William Faulkner, I may not be good at all, but I believe it's something I can do, and if I can then I enjoy it.
I love to write.
Next post will be about writing, and why YOU love to write - get thinking of your answers!!
Sue.
Wednesday 4 March 2009
Thoughts about language....
How many times you thought about one of your thoughts and became so thoughtful that there was no other thought to think?
It happens to many everyday. Life is all about observation. We learn by observing our surroundings and everything we can reach at any given point in time. We reserve those observations as memory and thoughts which can be used later in our life.
I never told you. I am a philosopher [in my own right and unique like any other individual] and a poet and a person who can prove that I am also someone who is illogical all the time and can make anyone go wild. I am still trying to figure out how to do that. I have been thinking for a long time and so are you. This is nothing big and not so important. However I extol the energy of my brain which gets used up thinking about thoughts which really have no relevance in real life.
Let me tell you why?
Did you ever think about bald people. Can they have Hairline fractures?
I am yet to figure out the difference between a novel and a book.
How old are you before it can be said you died of old age?
Why is it when we laugh in school the teachers say do you find something funny (It happens all the time)? When obviously we do?
If nobody buys a ticket to a movie do they still show it?
If someone owns a piece of land, do they own it all the way to the center of the earth (and above it too, How much above)?
If humans evolved from monkey's/apes, why are they still here?
Why do we say things like “What is your good name”? Do we consider our name bad or individuals have 2 names, is one of them bad?
Have you ever wondered why doesn't glue stick to the inside of the bottle?
Do penguins have knees?
Why is it written "May contain traces of peanuts or other kind of nuts" on peanut butter jars. Are people stupid enough not to realize it themselves? May be they are. Again I am not sure...
However for me the biggest question lies in the Great Wall. Why is it called the People's Republic Of China when China's not a republic?
Mystery! Mystery! Mystery!
Are you finding this cool or hot? Now tell me Why do "cool" and "hot" mean the same thing?
Let’s have few more.
Does a baby feel the umbilical cord being cut off? What would have happened if he feels?
I want to name my son/daughter “Anonymous”. Is it legal to name your kid "Anonymous"?
I want to go to South Pole but I also want to dig a hole there. If you dig a hole in the South Pole are you digging up or down?
Would a fly without wings be called a walk?
I have seen a building being built. Why is it called a "building" when it is already built?
Why is it that when you're driving and looking for an address, you turn down the volume on the radio? Why? Why? Why?
Let's take a while to think about the English Language:
We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.
And why it is that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham?
If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the plural of booth beeth?
If you have one goose, two geese, why not one moose, two meese, or one index, two indices?
Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend, or that you can comb through the annals of history but not a single annal? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?
Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what other language do people ship by truck and send cargo by ship and have noses that run and feet that smell.
How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and wise guy are opposites, and quite a lot and quite a few are alike? How can the weather be hot as hell one day and cold as hell another?
Have you noticed that we talk about certain things only when they are absent? Have you ever seen a horsefull carriage or a strapfull gown; met a sung hero or experienced requited love; have you ever run into someone who was combobulated, gruntled, or peccable?
And where are all those people who ARE spring chickens or who would ACTUALLY hurt a fly?
You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which an alarm clock goes off by going on......
English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race (which of course, isn't a race at all). That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when they lights are out, they are invisible. And why, when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I windup this post, I end it?
I could go on, but instead
Think about how many times you thought about one of your thoughts and became so thoughtful that there was no other thought to think?
Bye guys,
Sue
It happens to many everyday. Life is all about observation. We learn by observing our surroundings and everything we can reach at any given point in time. We reserve those observations as memory and thoughts which can be used later in our life.
I never told you. I am a philosopher [in my own right and unique like any other individual] and a poet and a person who can prove that I am also someone who is illogical all the time and can make anyone go wild. I am still trying to figure out how to do that. I have been thinking for a long time and so are you. This is nothing big and not so important. However I extol the energy of my brain which gets used up thinking about thoughts which really have no relevance in real life.
Let me tell you why?
Did you ever think about bald people. Can they have Hairline fractures?
I am yet to figure out the difference between a novel and a book.
How old are you before it can be said you died of old age?
Why is it when we laugh in school the teachers say do you find something funny (It happens all the time)? When obviously we do?
If nobody buys a ticket to a movie do they still show it?
If someone owns a piece of land, do they own it all the way to the center of the earth (and above it too, How much above)?
If humans evolved from monkey's/apes, why are they still here?
Why do we say things like “What is your good name”? Do we consider our name bad or individuals have 2 names, is one of them bad?
Have you ever wondered why doesn't glue stick to the inside of the bottle?
Do penguins have knees?
Why is it written "May contain traces of peanuts or other kind of nuts" on peanut butter jars. Are people stupid enough not to realize it themselves? May be they are. Again I am not sure...
However for me the biggest question lies in the Great Wall. Why is it called the People's Republic Of China when China's not a republic?
Mystery! Mystery! Mystery!
Are you finding this cool or hot? Now tell me Why do "cool" and "hot" mean the same thing?
Let’s have few more.
Does a baby feel the umbilical cord being cut off? What would have happened if he feels?
I want to name my son/daughter “Anonymous”. Is it legal to name your kid "Anonymous"?
I want to go to South Pole but I also want to dig a hole there. If you dig a hole in the South Pole are you digging up or down?
Would a fly without wings be called a walk?
I have seen a building being built. Why is it called a "building" when it is already built?
Why is it that when you're driving and looking for an address, you turn down the volume on the radio? Why? Why? Why?
Let's take a while to think about the English Language:
We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.
And why it is that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham?
If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the plural of booth beeth?
If you have one goose, two geese, why not one moose, two meese, or one index, two indices?
Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend, or that you can comb through the annals of history but not a single annal? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?
Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what other language do people ship by truck and send cargo by ship and have noses that run and feet that smell.
How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and wise guy are opposites, and quite a lot and quite a few are alike? How can the weather be hot as hell one day and cold as hell another?
Have you noticed that we talk about certain things only when they are absent? Have you ever seen a horsefull carriage or a strapfull gown; met a sung hero or experienced requited love; have you ever run into someone who was combobulated, gruntled, or peccable?
And where are all those people who ARE spring chickens or who would ACTUALLY hurt a fly?
You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which an alarm clock goes off by going on......
English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race (which of course, isn't a race at all). That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when they lights are out, they are invisible. And why, when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I windup this post, I end it?
I could go on, but instead
Think about how many times you thought about one of your thoughts and became so thoughtful that there was no other thought to think?
Bye guys,
Sue
Thursday 19 February 2009
Some day you will call me an Artist...
Blank paper always makes me think.
It makes me think of all the things I could cover it with. All of the different words, the different sentences, each with a different meaning. Maybe with a crude drawing of a strawberry in black pen. Or maybe an explosion of colour, made with my crayons, markers and paint. Oh the possibilities.
It’s so hard for me to decide what to defile the glaring white paper with. Maybe just some scribbles to show my frustration with my life. Or some lazy circles to show my exhaustion.
I guess I could use words too. Long words, short words, offensive words. I could use f**k instead of scribbles. Capitalise each letter.
I could replace the lazy circles with some simply structured sentences. Or I could write a book. A book telling you how I am feeling. Long paragraphs telling you of my anguish. The anguish only an artist feels.
They always say that any form of art is rooted in some sort of pain. I feel the pain like an artist feels the pain. I can feel it running through my veins, fueling everything I do, yet still holding me back. But that’s where I fall short. That’s where I am not an artist at all.
An artist can take this anguish and fill a paper with it. An artist can take their pain and translate it into something beautiful. Something so beautiful that the audience isn’t even aware of the artist’s pain; they instead only have eyes for the artist’s talent. I unlike the artist cannot do this. My pain simply stunts me.
I am not an artist. I am simply a deeply anguished individual. I can’t translate pain into something beautiful. I instead choose to hide it. I wish I could let the words flow and paint you a beautiful picture allowing us both to retreat from our pain. I wish I could write you a poem or sing you a song that you could relate to, allowing us to both not feel so alone. But instead I can only wish for these things; I will only babble to you and fill the blank page with words. Meaningless words.
So it would seem.
I could give you words that would paint you a picture, but it would not be a beautiful picture. Just a dark and disturbing picture. Nothing that would ever be hanging on a wall. No this picture would be stashed in a basement, hidden from sight.
I know this because I have painted you a picture. I have told you of my anguish, you’ve seen the alarming picture. And you stashed it away and forgot about it. You’ll never ask me about it again. It will only sit in the depths of your mind, slowly disappearing as you forget. That’s why I’ve stopped painting the picture. The picture only exists in my mind now; its final home. Never to be hung and admired again.
Maybe I am an artist. There is so much art that wasn’t appreciated until the artist had left this world.
Maybe you will admire my picture after I am gone.
Maybe you’ll remember the things I told you, the picture I painted you.
Maybe one day you’ll even admire it.
Maybe you’ll be able to look past the disturbance and see the beauty underneath.
Maybe, some day you will call me an artist...
That's a piece I wrote after my Grandma died when I was 18. I had never lost anyone before and my world fell apart. I lost my ability to write & my music seemed like noise.
Now, I'm not one for believing in ghosts or spirits etc but one night when I was sleeping, my grandma came to me. I see the rational side and say "It was just a dream" but she said to me, as in the words came out of her mouth, "I'm Ok".
That's all she said, that's all she needed to say to me. The next day - I wrote this piece. It was a start, a way to just release everything I was feeling onto a piece of paper. To allow my self to grieve, cry, scream & finally breath again.
Just thought I would share, I went to a very dark place after my Grandma died. But even though her body stopped working, she still lives on inside my heart, my families heart & our memories.
We may loose people and think our world has ended. The grief is tough and pain hurts.
But we just need that one sign, a sign that everything is going to be Ok and we can continue with our lives whilst knowing we have memories, family and heart.
Sue
It makes me think of all the things I could cover it with. All of the different words, the different sentences, each with a different meaning. Maybe with a crude drawing of a strawberry in black pen. Or maybe an explosion of colour, made with my crayons, markers and paint. Oh the possibilities.
It’s so hard for me to decide what to defile the glaring white paper with. Maybe just some scribbles to show my frustration with my life. Or some lazy circles to show my exhaustion.
I guess I could use words too. Long words, short words, offensive words. I could use f**k instead of scribbles. Capitalise each letter.
I could replace the lazy circles with some simply structured sentences. Or I could write a book. A book telling you how I am feeling. Long paragraphs telling you of my anguish. The anguish only an artist feels.
They always say that any form of art is rooted in some sort of pain. I feel the pain like an artist feels the pain. I can feel it running through my veins, fueling everything I do, yet still holding me back. But that’s where I fall short. That’s where I am not an artist at all.
An artist can take this anguish and fill a paper with it. An artist can take their pain and translate it into something beautiful. Something so beautiful that the audience isn’t even aware of the artist’s pain; they instead only have eyes for the artist’s talent. I unlike the artist cannot do this. My pain simply stunts me.
I am not an artist. I am simply a deeply anguished individual. I can’t translate pain into something beautiful. I instead choose to hide it. I wish I could let the words flow and paint you a beautiful picture allowing us both to retreat from our pain. I wish I could write you a poem or sing you a song that you could relate to, allowing us to both not feel so alone. But instead I can only wish for these things; I will only babble to you and fill the blank page with words. Meaningless words.
So it would seem.
I could give you words that would paint you a picture, but it would not be a beautiful picture. Just a dark and disturbing picture. Nothing that would ever be hanging on a wall. No this picture would be stashed in a basement, hidden from sight.
I know this because I have painted you a picture. I have told you of my anguish, you’ve seen the alarming picture. And you stashed it away and forgot about it. You’ll never ask me about it again. It will only sit in the depths of your mind, slowly disappearing as you forget. That’s why I’ve stopped painting the picture. The picture only exists in my mind now; its final home. Never to be hung and admired again.
Maybe I am an artist. There is so much art that wasn’t appreciated until the artist had left this world.
Maybe you will admire my picture after I am gone.
Maybe you’ll remember the things I told you, the picture I painted you.
Maybe one day you’ll even admire it.
Maybe you’ll be able to look past the disturbance and see the beauty underneath.
Maybe, some day you will call me an artist...
That's a piece I wrote after my Grandma died when I was 18. I had never lost anyone before and my world fell apart. I lost my ability to write & my music seemed like noise.
Now, I'm not one for believing in ghosts or spirits etc but one night when I was sleeping, my grandma came to me. I see the rational side and say "It was just a dream" but she said to me, as in the words came out of her mouth, "I'm Ok".
That's all she said, that's all she needed to say to me. The next day - I wrote this piece. It was a start, a way to just release everything I was feeling onto a piece of paper. To allow my self to grieve, cry, scream & finally breath again.
Just thought I would share, I went to a very dark place after my Grandma died. But even though her body stopped working, she still lives on inside my heart, my families heart & our memories.
We may loose people and think our world has ended. The grief is tough and pain hurts.
But we just need that one sign, a sign that everything is going to be Ok and we can continue with our lives whilst knowing we have memories, family and heart.
Sue
Saturday 14 February 2009
What is Love...
It is Love that gives me purpose
to change and grow and learn.
It is Love that guides me on this path
and helps me choose each turn.
It is Love that gives me courage
to stand against my fears;
to open up my heart to you,
to let you see my tears.
It is Love that gives me trust
and hope when things go wrong.
When distance stands between us,
it is Love that keeps me strong.
It is Love that offers harmony
and a friendship that is true.
How wonderful that I can share
a Love like this with you.
to change and grow and learn.
It is Love that guides me on this path
and helps me choose each turn.
It is Love that gives me courage
to stand against my fears;
to open up my heart to you,
to let you see my tears.
It is Love that gives me trust
and hope when things go wrong.
When distance stands between us,
it is Love that keeps me strong.
It is Love that offers harmony
and a friendship that is true.
How wonderful that I can share
a Love like this with you.
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