Tuesday, 5 November 2013


Part of me wants to work harder at something.
Another part says it isn't worth it.

Sunday, 18 August 2013


It boils through me.
For a moment.

I refuse.

You are futile.

Monday, 15 July 2013

A Single Moment

Emma sat at the window, her gaze fixed on the falling rain outside, motionless. Her green eyes reflected the grey-green darkness of the world outside, as she lost herself in thought, numb to all her senses. I saw her shiver, but she seemed not to notice the cold. She was right in front of me, and yet she was too far away. I watched as the first tear rolled down her face, and then the second. She trembled and yet, her gaze never shifted. She made no move to get warm, none to stop her trembling, and none to wipe her tears away. I understood. This was my fault.
My name is Emily Baron. Emma is my sister. Or perhaps, ‘was’ would be the apt word now. I’m not there anymore. Emma doesn’t have a sister anymore. And it’s my fault. You see, I was scared, I was just plain petrified of life, and so, I found a way out. Except, I didn’t think about Emma, nor did I think about Mum and Dad. I just wanted to take the fear away, that pain of feeling so alone. I was sick of being told I wasn’t good enough. My parents wouldn’t say it, but I know they wished I’d take more interest in my studies. Emma has always loved studying, but me; it’s never been my cup of tea. My teachers took joy in making me miserable. No grade I got would ever be enough because Emma would always have done better. It amused me how Emma always thought I was unaffected. She told me once that she admired my nerve to stand up so defiantly every hour, to each new teacher, listening to the same speech and come away smiling.
But I wasn’t smiling. I honestly didn’t know how to tell them how lost I was. I’d heard enough of their speeches to be numb to them. I wanted desperately to become better. I read incessantly, I wrote and rewrote my assignments, till my fingers were sore and calluses had formed where I held my pen too tight, for too long. It wasn’t Emma’s fault. She had an eidetic memory, that is, she could remember everything she read, word for word, after having read it only once. That’s not something anyone should have to compete against. Emma always told me to do my best and leave whatever happens to happen. She was never the kind of big sister to rub in her brilliance. In fact, I loved her all the more for her humility and her willingness to help me. But it just wasn’t enough. I couldn’t understand like she did. I just wasn’t good enough. I never would have been.
So, last year, on the 10th of August, I put an end to it. It was just after our end of semester exams and I really didn’t feel too confident. I’d been moody all week and my day really hadn’t gone well. Emma had come home for the weekend from college, upset about the dorm rooms being full of girls who cared about nothing but their hair and make-up and had no sense of personal space or respect for others’ belongings. But I didn’t have the patience to listen to her rant about it. She’d meant it as a joke when she said, “You’re always in your head. When are you going to think about someone else?” But that wasn’t the moment for those words. Before I knew what I was doing, I lost my temper at her. I threw my backpack at her, ran upstairs to my room and slammed my door. Hard. She came up after me, apologising, even though she didn’t have to.
All I wanted to do was shut her out, shut out the world, shut out the voice in my head telling me I would never be good enough; that there was no point in my existence, shut out all those comparisons with everything I’m supposed to be, everything I could be, but am not.
            I broke down, my head throbbed. The voice in my head kept telling me I wasn’t good for anything. It told me I was a mistake, one not worth keeping, not worth having around, a mere burden and embarrassment. It echoed in my ears. Over and over again. I couldn’t make it stop. I tried to sleep it off, but I couldn’t. I stumbled into the bathroom, drenched in sweat, my face stained with dry tears, to find the medicine cabinet. Maybe something in there would help. Mum had been prescribed sleeping pills last week; I thought I’d just take one.
            One didn’t help, nor did two. I don’t remember how many I took. The pain stopped as I fell asleep. But, I never woke up. At least, not in the sense that people normally do. I woke up to the sound of sirens, and watched as Mum, Dad and Emma rushed into the ER behind the medics who were frantically trying to revive me, in vain. I watched Mum break down into pieces as the doctor from the ER told her there was nothing he could do; I was gone.
            I hadn’t meant to. But it seemed like I’d found peace. I hadn’t. It took mere seconds for my heart to break watching Dad struggle to hold tears back as Mum and Emma held each other and wept in the waiting room, wishing it wasn’t true; wishing, hoping, praying that I’d wake up, that the doctor would come back saying it had been a mistake, that I’d woken up, that I would be alright. But he didn’t.
I’d never known how strong Dad was till I watched him go through all the paper work the hospital had him fill out, without a flinch. He went through all the questions stone faced. I couldn’t read him. And then they let him into the room where my body was. He was in shambles before he entered, crying his heart out. It was then that I realised that Dad was always there for me. I wanted so much to tell him I was there, but I knew it wouldn’t help. I’d been his special helper, his baby girl. What had I done?
My pain had been gone for a little while now, but as I watched my family, a new pain seared through my being, whatever I am now. A spirit? A presence? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be called. All I know is that my peace, or what I thought was peace, is non-existent. I live, if you can call this semi-existence ‘living’, in constant regret and guilt. In my naivety, I’d torn four lives apart. And all it took was a moment. Unintentional as it was, it could not be fixed. I couldn’t watch them anymore; it hurt too much to see their pain.
That voice I’d heard, it comes back every now and again, reminding me how Emma at the window now, trembling in the cold, unmoving, was my fault. It’s been a year today. I thought she was doing better, until today I found her sitting by the window. Mum and Dad are at my grave, but I don’t like the cemetery. I’m alone where I am now. No one to talk to, no one to listen to. I need no sleep and time is irrelevant, but I spend it all with Emma. I know I can’t do anything to help her. I can’t tell her I’m in a better place, or ask her to let go and be happy. Mum and Dad are doing better, Emma’s the one I hurt the most. She blames herself. I wish I could tell her it’s not her fault. Mum’s tried a million times, and she says she knows, but if you saw her today, like I do, you’d read it in her eyes.

If I had a moment, a single moment to change, it would be my last minutes with Emma. I’d hug her, listen patiently, and tell her that I loved her and that she had been the best sister anyone could ever hope for. Unfortunately, life was a lifetime ago, and it has never been known for its generosity in second chances. I just hope someday Emma finds her peace. She knows I’m sorry, but I wish I could tell her.

Wednesday, 24 April 2013


I cut up a t-shirt today, just the sleeves and collar and whatnot... But I didn't quite want to throw the cloth off. It seemed usable. Apparently, I was right. :)

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

Start Art?

It's been a while since I did something productive. This isn't great, but I'm happy I did it :)

Monday, 22 April 2013

This is War

I speak and hear nothing.
My voice thunders through.
I  listen to echoes of great men disappear.
I watch shadows of ages past turn.
In the silence, their memories burn.

The hourglass tips.
Time refuses to stand still.
We trudge on, set in our tracks.
Lefts and rights are all but one.

Echoes that haunt.
Echoes that hunt.
Echoes that cause a moment of love.
Echoes remain, echoes always.

Mind stunted, shaken.
Longing to forget.
Body, bruised, battered and broken.
Age can always tell.

Wisdom in the words of those gone ahead.
Warning in the words to those who follow tread.

Footprints and blood, no wave can cleanse.
Swords and armor from toe to head.

War, this is war, battle cries unheard.
Arise from the midst of humanity, dissected.

I will it to stop.
I will it to end.
I will fight it, to death.
To serve and defend.

War, this is war.
My lullaby to those gone.
Departed, they find peace from the broken souled world.

War, this is war.
Only sorrow it holds.
War, this is war.
Not for a moment more.

Sunday, 21 April 2013

Walking Down Memory Lane.

I take quite a few walks down memory lane every so often. I find it refreshing. There are times when I wish I could paint or sketch or something because there are those moments that are so precious and every time the image comes up in my head, part of me wants to plug my brain into a printer and have a hard copy. And the other part of me tells me I possibly wouldn't do it, even if I could.

See, the thing about me is, I remember a lot, at least when it comes to things that matter to me. Now, I'm gonna apologise to anyone I offend here and now, because it's bound to happen somewhere along this post.
I remember people who have given me something to think about, something to smile about. I remember what they said, how they said it, why they said it, when they said it and the whole sha-bang of the conversation. I remember because, to me, it was worth remembering. I remember things about people I've never met sometimes, just because someone in my memory mentioned them.

And yet, I remember less than half of the new faces and names I met this Sunday at the youth gathering. I know there are about three people I'll remember for a while, two because I actually got to talk to them for a little less than 5 minutes, but it was a conversation. And I'm happy to remember. The third just has one of those faces that I cannot place, but looks so ridiculously familiar for some reason. It's like I'm missing something I'm supposed to know and yet, the chances of that actually being true are practically nil.

I have so many memories flooding my brain right now, I couldn't possibly begin to type them out, but brains are funny things. I'm actually happy that they stump man every now and again, reminding us that if we don't know our own brains, everything else we know can't amount to much. At least, that's how I see it. I'm glad to remember. And no, I haven't got only happy memories. But, I'd like to believe that I've taken what I need to learn from those that weren't so pleasant, and the unpleasantness isn't meant to be dwelt on. It helps to start off with clean slates when you're as short-tempered (gaining length each day ;P) as I am or have been.

Take a stroll down memory lane. Remind yourself of good things. Sometimes they hide in the silliest of jokes, sometimes in the angriest quarrel. But memory lane always has something for us to learn.

Saturday, 20 April 2013

Today is a New Day.

Today is a new day.
I can say it again.
Today is a new day.
A day to forgive.

I forgive you , for whatever you did.
More so, I struggle to forgive myself.
For it was worse, what I did, I think.
And I ask that you forgive me too.

Today is a new day.
A new day to live.

Today, I choose to be new.
I choose to walk new and talk new.
Yes, the old has slipped in,
But it reminds me once more, today is new.

Today is a new day.
Yesterday was too.
But today's different.
Today, I'm with You.

Yesterday, I wasn't so sure.
Tomorrow I'll be surer, I hope.
But today is a new day,
And I choose it to be new.

Today is a new day.
I learn to forgive.
I learn to live.
I learn to be more than the memories that weigh me down.
I learn to be more of the memories that change my frown.
I learn to smile, even at the storm.
I learn these because...
I learn.
He teaches.
And the day after that.

Friday, 19 April 2013

Cradled Cruelty

I watched today as three little boys, the oldest of whom could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen, tease and torture a poor wounded pigeon. I wondered if it was a pet, or if they were trying to help, but it was soon blatantly evident what their intentions were. The eldest boy, I see him around everyday almost, his dog quite annoys me sometimes with it's barking, but today, I gained so much respect for it, much more than that boy will earn from me in a long time. I watched the boys, aware of my gaze, play with the pigeon softly. Then, it got rough. They threw little stones and biscuits at the poor flightless creature who cornered itself and I'm sure, wished it could fly far away. My telling them to leave it alone before they killed it was pointless and so annoying. Little arrogant boys acting smart just because they think I can't understand Kanada. For their information, I quite understood most of their snide comments and evil plots and the only reason they were saved an earful was for my inability to carry a full row in any language other than English :|
They tried to force the dog to bite it or something, but the dog refused and growled at his master. I've never been prouder of that dog before. I believe the boy was scratched ever so slightly, and in my opinion, it was a little too slight, but for the dog's sake, I'm glad. In false humour now, the boys annoy the dog and further torment the pigeon who somehow manages to jump off the terrace and find a snug hole in the wall of the gutter next to the eldest boy's house, only to be dragged out and caged in the sunshine.
I watched the dog stand on two legs trying to reach the cage, in vain. I watched it chase away the nasty crow that seemed eager to torment the poor wretch in gray, all the more.
The cage is gone from the clothes line, the dog's been tied up again. I don't know how the story ends.
What I do know is that the dog had more 'heart' than those three boys put together.

Thursday, 18 April 2013

Black and White

So, I've been away for a while and I haven't written anything proper in AGES!
And I don't quite know if this will be 'proper' either. But I might as well start somewhere to get back into maintaining my blog.
So, if anyone bothered to read the title, I'm wondering if it makes you wonder what I could possibly say about Black and White that hasn't been said before. Well, I'll admit, I can't say it's something that hasn't been said before. But I have something to say, just the same.
WE live in this crazy world right now, where there are quite a few people out there seem to think it's alright to go around bombing places and shooting people and watching Criminal Minds of late and too much at the same time, might end up unsettling me I think. And I keep hearing people say, nothing's black and white. But what if it could be?
No, life isn't black and white and hopefully it never will be, because the colours add so much that it would be a shame to lose even a little bit of it. But our thoughts and deeds. Our reasons. Can't they be as defined as the distinction between black and white? Do so many things have to be gray? Must we keep adding to that mountain of doubt and fear and indecision that defines 'gray', at least the way I see it? Aren't the 'grays' just ways to keep from choosing one or the other or perhaps both or neither. The 'gray' seems to be a way out. But, is it?
I leave you to it. Have a beautiful week, what's left of it anyway. God bless!