Memories
Memories.
His,
thunder through her mind
just like his footsteps
when she was asleep.Hers,
splash onto his eyes,
making them water.
Memories.
His,
thunder through her mind
just like his footsteps
when she was asleep.Hers,
splash onto his eyes,
making them water.
This great myth of the tortured artist, the starving writer, the moody creator needs to be debunked once and for all.
Religion met politics in a thunderclap of violence & my city burnt. It was never the same again. I was never the same again. Thank God.
For some months now, Clubhouse has been my new social media toy. It has also been my solace, my refuge during the soul-shattering COVID-19 second wave. I’ve made friendships of a very different kind from any I’ve had before (even counting the pioneering days of chatrooms, blogs & Twitter). Hearing people’s voices through the dark desolation of a pandemic and having those voices be what carry you into choosing to wake up every day – this cannot be explained to somebody who hasn’t experienced it. This piece was written for a theme set by my steadiest co-host, Tareque Laskar – Better Days.
We assume mountain lovers are all about the zen. But sea lovers know that the zen is also in the changing tides and the still sand. Children of the water remember that happiness is not the same as cheer or even calm at all times. And that life is about…
On Novelrace this week, the first novels have already been completed, signalling the start of a new phase in the race. Dad gave me some insights.
“She tried to be the kind of person that interesting things happened to.”