Age & Love; April.

April.

On the nineteenth of this month, I turned nineteen. Not only was another year added to my existence, but a new level of love was built and solidified on my heart. If ever I knew I was loved, I KNEW it on that day.

The purest of messages, like the one attached above, poured in from all spheres of life. One might find this normal because it was my birthday and naturally, people would be jovial. Quite the contrary applied for me. Just before my birthday, I'd been detached, heavily at that, from the land of the living. Perhaps it's safe to say I merely existed.

My birthday showed me WHY I existed and that's why it is perhaps by far, the best month of this year. I learnt love, I received love and believed in it again. What was taken away, had been restored. 

Lesson: Love lives.

Hello Hi..

When I first started writing this, what I first wanted to do was apologize to all the beautiful people who read our blog. I was going to speak of how I haven't had internet access and how my laptop kept re-incarnating as a piece of hardware that did nothing. The last two are true, by the way. What isn't however, is my apology. 

I'm not sorry.

The time spent away from our blog has been quite the interesting one. There's been growth, knowledge, laughs, misty eyes (because thugs don't cry. .) but most of all, there's been a plethora of thoughts. I'm not sure if I'll be able to tabulate them well enough but attempts are in order.

Perhaps for clarity, I'll use months because each thirty or so days brought a new perspective to life. Some months were and are still prettier than others. All months, however, were real and invaluable. 

Walk with me.

N.
xx

Scrambled

Scrambled

The fertile one has been broken,
its remnants lie splattered-
like the broken morale of a defeated
team and lying in ruins like
the spirit of a broken dream.

The shield, the protective white
has been stripped of its nobility
while the yolk of potential
has been spilled for all to see, to ridicule,
to mourn.

Together, the broken ones have
been mixed into one
indecipherable blob- potential,
youth, fertility all lost in
the heat of a hurried breakfast
pan.

The complexities of
wasted youth, lost potential,
mistaken worth all rendered
helpless in the simple plate
of a hungry man.

 

by Shiksha Dhedha

A Promise, A wish almost.

Sometimes we think we have outgrown something. Sometimes we don't realise how misguided our minds are. Sometimes, we don't realise that our younger selves may have been wiser than our current selves. And so, within those ambiguous statements, I promise to revive the budding dream that was this blog. And hopefully, a small little person I so dearly love, will return as well.

So this is a promise to blog regularly. A promise to myself more than anything. A wish almost.

The Problem is Staying Alive

A hidden gem on campus.

Orange on the Table.

 

They say it exists.

 

 

 

I was on a date with myself.

 

 

 

And then I wasn't any more.

 

Wondering About You

Wondering About You

 

I wondered if I would ever see you again

If your sad eyes would make the same folly

of locking glances with me.

If the wind would caress the darkness

of my gashed face and send messages

of pleading toward your carefree smile.

 

I wondered if all the rhythm in my unsung song

and the beat of my unmoving dance

would still amaze you, even now,

after all this time.

 

I wondered if the white canvas of my heart

would be cleansed of the gold stains

of your dancing emotion. If your tragedy

would illuminate my music ever again.

 

I wondered, under a tree, in the shade of

thought 

sheltered from the brightness of youth, if

I should ever meet you and if I ever will

write poetry about wondering about you

when I wonder about you.

 

By Shiksha Dheda

From my perspective

Yes, I am a romantic.

However much I would like to deny it, I can't.
Which leads me to saying that I'm an optimist.
And as an optimist, I find myself being a photographer( let's use the less professional...I'm a person who takes photographs).

I find myself wondering these days if one can be a photographer without being an optimist, or atleast having an optimistic gene in your body. Essentially, a photographer's job is to find value where others don't. If they don't then there is no point to their job because they wouldn't be documenting a fresh perspective of someone, something and some place.

And I wonder, how is it possible for my bones to be optimistic when my flesh is cynical. I guess it's just a shield. Maybe I find optimists weak. Perhaps my cynical flesh is serving the purpose of protecting my fragile bones. Life stomps on Optimists. I don't like being weak.

I'll leave it there for now. I promise myself to finish it,