I guess from time to time one finds oneself disappointed. Unless of course, you're an evolved piece of social media garbage who buys into the suspending expectations tribe then you don't. Enid Blyton wrote a book titled The Enchanted Wood and I've borrowed it from AT to read it. I recognise that it's much too... Continue Reading →
I’m sitting by the phone, waiting to hear from you, my arms droop from the side of the chair as I hold the newspaper in my right hand and smoke a cigarette using my left. There’s a terrible war raging outside and the reports are full of feelings, opinions, and warnings. The struggle, as they put... Continue Reading →
“But memories are time beings, too, like cherry blossoms or ginkgo leaves; for a while they are beautiful, and then they fade and die.” ― Ruth Ozeki, A Tale for the Time Being A couple of years ago, I read a book titled A Tale for the Time Being. The book was unassuming, part of... Continue Reading →
400. I have to admit it somewhere, so it might as well be here. I read a major chunk of Refusing Heaven and I didn't understand a major chunk of it. What I know from this experience is that I still have learning to do. And that makes me happy. For isn't it wonderful to... Continue Reading →
It's all the little things and how they fall into the intervals of day-to-day living, of you and your countenances. They arrange themselves around me, not saying the things I knew you would say because your absence fills its place, being where you may have been, knowing you'd pick this piece or that and sometimes... Continue Reading →
Many moons ago, a switch went off in my brain and I was compelled to become this person who had to do something productive every single day to survive. It could be an hour of exercise, writing in my journal, cleaning my cupboard, reading a book or an essay that lends something to my writing... Continue Reading →
There's a golden rule they tell us writers — the longer you don't write, the harder it becomes to even put out a sentence on the page — and it's as good as gospel truth. A quiet sort of dread settles inside you and you're scared of what words you're going to say, how bad they're... Continue Reading →
I seem to have forgotten how to write about nothing - the great wide expanses of absence. Why must everything be something? Have meaning? Fall into line? Be coherent? I've beaten myself silly about not categorising thoughts inside the margins of my journals because they need to go into an essay, a piece somewhere, a... Continue Reading →
