tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27877204581431370812024-03-06T09:45:27.051+05:30The Silence of My VoiceAkankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-3864133623646112022020-12-25T01:31:00.001+05:302020-12-25T01:31:16.913+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Twenty Four: Holy Night<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i> Sixth year. Last day.<br />In all of the years of Blogmas, the second, and third year were wildly viewed by people. And, through the years, that number has slightly gone down. I didn't understand, or think too much into the relevance of it initially, because really, it was only my way of wrapping my year up in a bundle of words.<br />I also assume that the numbers that reflect now are possibly the people who care about me, and whom I care about. And, that's more wildly important to me.<br /></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I was having a conversation with my girlfriends recently, when one of them (read: Mon) said something relevant enough for a whole lot us to understand. We can't put in the effort of two people, just like we can't do the thinking of two people. All we can, and must manage should be within our bounds. Apart from you, no one can help you ensure that more, than the people who really want to be in your lives.<br />It is, indeed, true that people who truly care, remember all details. And, I've been wonderfully shown this all throughout the day, today. Being taken care of is a luxury, a lot of us don't experience. So, take care in taking care of who take care of you. </i></b></span><b style="font-family: times;"><i>This year has really shown all of us how easily our control over our own lives can be snatched away. And, the only control we were left with was how we felt all the while. Remember that control, and respect that control belonging to others', as well.<br />Not for anyone, but your life will be better for it.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I'll see you again in 2021 (I did first write that as 2020); well, hopefully.<br />Be safe, and more than anything, be humble. You don't when life will hit. So, have a care.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6shUgrQ5aJrTcrh1QN040STF1mBOXvOYFKqqexCpVuOR4Fc1uGc8e9w9oUGQfnKSdsx-K_RrirUEzE4dKcWkKOmB-4I0Xp6SEPiEL9O2yEohbiG3XNib1d_dJ_IdxPKerB7IMMG4ye1M/s800/Manjeet+Kaur.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6shUgrQ5aJrTcrh1QN040STF1mBOXvOYFKqqexCpVuOR4Fc1uGc8e9w9oUGQfnKSdsx-K_RrirUEzE4dKcWkKOmB-4I0Xp6SEPiEL9O2yEohbiG3XNib1d_dJ_IdxPKerB7IMMG4ye1M/w400-h300/Manjeet+Kaur.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Manjeet Kaur</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-24071365746536133422020-12-24T01:59:00.000+05:302020-12-24T01:59:05.325+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Twenty Three: 27<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i> People are not statistics, or death rates. They're people; so help them.<br />Music makes your day. Silence saves it.<br />Respect is more important than any sort of love. Remember that.<br />I talk really fast. And, I don't like it.<br />Start with a plant. Just one. I promise, it'll change your life.<br />It's vital to know if the guilt you're feeling is all your own, or being pressed upon you.<br />Women are capable. Strong women are powerful.<br />Hoping is what maintains you as a realist.<br />I still regret not taking more pictures.<br />Sometimes, some things seem too hard. Stop. Not everything requires your 100%<br />I still have to learn when to give up.<br />Wilting leaves of my plants break my heart<br />Apologize only when you feel guilty. Otherwise you're only faffing.<br />I know what I seek. I just can't trace the start point to it.<br />I said last year you can never repay people for taking you as you come. Truth is, they don't need you to.<br />If your questions are unanswered for too long, it's probably best to stop asking them anymore.<br />When you hold a grudge for too long, you're the only one still affected by what happened.<br />Forgive people, and give yourself that peace.<br />Be with someone who'd want what's best for you, even when you most hate it.<br />Don't be with someone who'd </i>do<i> what's best for you. That's overstepping.<br />Don't share your pain unless you're sure it's going to be understood.<br /></i></b><b><i>I'm still trying to be more of the person when I'm alone, in front of people.<br /></i></b><b><i>Look after yourself first. But, do it thoughtfully, not selfishly.<br /></i><br /><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtzGNtJAj_dTJ12T8kwQ8Xpc5BrzaOiJNu-41OPTDvYCkPv6G-jS46i2epXfFJFMnlnh3gwUB4Mu1-KezLtuuNgCfjqOdGBBSMNiVaNEIVRJYq5PW8cTMcOt1WSKayQlYczNZofvLUws/s1600/Aldo+Crusher.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtzGNtJAj_dTJ12T8kwQ8Xpc5BrzaOiJNu-41OPTDvYCkPv6G-jS46i2epXfFJFMnlnh3gwUB4Mu1-KezLtuuNgCfjqOdGBBSMNiVaNEIVRJYq5PW8cTMcOt1WSKayQlYczNZofvLUws/w400-h300/Aldo+Crusher.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Aldo Crusher</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></div><p></p><p><b style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><i>A.</i></b></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-37482882681453217252020-12-22T23:28:00.001+05:302020-12-22T23:28:12.340+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Twenty Two: Rudolph<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i> There will always be parts of you that are inexplicable, even for you. Though, it seems to matter more to us, than to other people. Try, and think of the moon's reflection in the sea. Rippled, broken, even when it's the moon itself compelling the tides; but somehow, gazing at it, no one doubts that it is, de facto, the moon. That's all of us, the moon in water. </i></b></span><b style="font-family: times;"><i>For everyone else, we're simply the moon; whole, still round, still white - even when we keep disrupting, and getting unsettled by our own reflections. It's easy for us to oscillate between treasuring ourselves, or not. But, there is a difference between intelligence, and wisdom, and we need to use only one of them when it comes to how we deal with the daily encounters with ourselves. I know I've said this before, but we're kinder to people, than ourselves. And, that's a huge mistake because when I think back on the times I scalped myself over something unapt, it hurts now to know how hard I was on myself, even though I didn't know any better.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Empathy isn't to be reserved solely for others. And, we aren't truly being kind to the world, either, if we don't know how to meaningfully, and primarily direct towards us. <br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>For all the ways astrology twines the planets, and stars with your life, you're not just a part of it; you make for a puzzle piece the universe. For all the planets, and stars that affect you, you're holding them all in your hand. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Stop being neutral with your life.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKA9Yc4lTadrAtmdgC0l1jzXNpVmL_IX4CZoYbp0mBOT8TVFYnPjjWzODQ-UAADUwBrqZZXZ063LZfkhQEtMrIjvDpExVkKKSnNt0534s3BTdXOKUTTkS8I2nBYqIF9muzndgvYXJN4DM/s800/Tomasz+Wysocki.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKA9Yc4lTadrAtmdgC0l1jzXNpVmL_IX4CZoYbp0mBOT8TVFYnPjjWzODQ-UAADUwBrqZZXZ063LZfkhQEtMrIjvDpExVkKKSnNt0534s3BTdXOKUTTkS8I2nBYqIF9muzndgvYXJN4DM/w400-h300/Tomasz+Wysocki.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Tomasz Wysocki</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-63547372749404284192020-12-21T23:38:00.005+05:302020-12-21T23:38:47.725+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Twenty One: Joy to the World<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i> We all live our life with numerous fissures within us; some we've been existing with all this while, and some, made from our own misdemeanours. I feel, as humans, whatever we're foraging for is unto us to ensure it fills us in. Often, we commit a grave gaffe celebrating the encounter of only one of a million elements that we chase, and use it to try, and plug all our crevices. A lot of us are running on empty, most times. To shoulder the albatross, and to also drain something from the same tribulation, of providing all the puzzle pieces, is how we make ourselves, and others juice out.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I find it quite flakey when people mention they have a certain set of hobbies, or none at all. I feel people adopting hobbies is their way to relentlessly keep giving themselves a chance to be out there just enough, to be able to get a glimpse of what they're seeking. It's a bleak chance, but one, anyway. Then there's the lot of us too fearful to do anything about it. We often throw out questions to the universe, masked as a complaint. What I believe, is we always have the answers - we're just not brave enough to pen them down to ourselves, because once we do, we affirm it. And, what is direr to us than knowing, down to our bones, that which we're trying to forget.<br />Maybe that's why people like going to old bookstores - they're never really alone, whilst sitting flanked by pieces, that people left of themselves in those books. I can't imagine a more profound form of intimacy; to be with someone, without either of you having a clue about it.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Apart from art itself, there are a trillion things in the world that, if not resemble it, can surely make us believe in art; that can titillate us enough to go out, and pursue them. What might feel akin to everything to the next person, might be as irrelevant as a puddles during monsoons to you - but, that doesn't stop it from being art, nonetheless. Know how you constantly find people, seeming lost to the world? They're busy, looking for art. Also, the people who seem dumbfounded sometimes? For all you know, they might have discovered what must be art to them. All of us have our own version of that which is real to us. We only need to be looking for which isn't. Because, it's rare, to unearth something, and knowing it in your soul, that only a dream could be better than it.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>There is a reason poetry is read in silence.<br />You need to be selfish to feel it all by yourself, and ache from it, and use it to align your discontinuities.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2YNm7lhGfPD7mFahMxw7aXBspIw-Ki9zK7Ked6mS21gmfcesT9i7e-TwSThjdE7cdXW_CxGHVd860wwdJfW-UyMl1UNMBhYb2gOR5RxcCUDI5zMgzNrCEkCnW2Q7TUyZd1bdUmYcZQM/s400/Daria+Klimova.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2YNm7lhGfPD7mFahMxw7aXBspIw-Ki9zK7Ked6mS21gmfcesT9i7e-TwSThjdE7cdXW_CxGHVd860wwdJfW-UyMl1UNMBhYb2gOR5RxcCUDI5zMgzNrCEkCnW2Q7TUyZd1bdUmYcZQM/w400-h300/Daria+Klimova.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Daria Klimova</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-3353716817942347892020-12-20T22:41:00.001+05:302020-12-20T22:41:29.662+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Twenty: Sleigh Ride<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Five days to Christmas.<br />I've felt, and expressed this earlier in one of the few Blogmases, for how fast it went. But, none of them have seemed to gone by as swiftly, as this one. There's something to be said about being engrossed all the time. This year has been a massive one-off for everyone in the world. I never would have imagined taking care of my life, home, and work the way I have been these past few months. I won't lie. Some days, it's hard; and, some, it feels like pure shit. I had to learn to turn my whole day, from the way I got up, to how I had retrain my mind to change its tune to the best time of the day. With a tonne of concessions in a lot of things in life, a lot of us barely felt much, apart from the frustration of lagging work, and house arrest. For an illimitable of us, the fate hadn't been so kind. Unemployment, sickness, death, starvation, homelessness. Imagine having a flat tire on your way to an important meeting, with no help around, resulting in a failed meeting, an upset boss, and a really terrible day. Take that quantum of the misery you felt all throughout that day; quantify it, or define it, whichever suits you. That's the amount of misery a lot of people out there have been going through in a single minute, mind you. That's nowhere even a tolerable way to get through life. But they are doing it.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>There are time-stopping moments to experience, even on the worst of days; especially, on the worst of days. Time passes in eras; and, so does everything that belongs to it; and, that includes you, and me. The trouble, and pain this year has brought on the world will pass, too. But, you, me, and a lot of us are in the position to be kinder to other people. </i>That<i>, is the kind of advantage you should be taking of your privileges. </i></b></span><b style="font-family: times;"><i>There will also be days where you'll feel disconnected, or nothing you'll say will feel appropriate. But head on, anyway. Write something, create something, help someone....just make a damn numbers sheet to track your expenses better. But, whatever you do, make sure the same things you're now doing, is different from earlier on the pretext of you living your life in a smarter, kinder, and a more thankful way.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Because, there is nothing more terrifying than a blank piece of paper.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit95VwGF6Opr80bWiVT8Qc6fzmE9wgH-FX92DZWHEuHlcOhlOpstRWZ4Ggg_vHKlYJBbFuTIyPe5EQjSZqdczzAdahUQjp4IdjjXQ_Jo6WjHAkVrxDBt-XQpQLFtmZGkzmL51l1J6vNck/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit95VwGF6Opr80bWiVT8Qc6fzmE9wgH-FX92DZWHEuHlcOhlOpstRWZ4Ggg_vHKlYJBbFuTIyPe5EQjSZqdczzAdahUQjp4IdjjXQ_Jo6WjHAkVrxDBt-XQpQLFtmZGkzmL51l1J6vNck/" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: </i><i>Chris Gilleard</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></i></b></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-91710106864467503492020-12-20T03:05:00.002+05:302020-12-20T03:06:17.333+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Nineteen: The Christmas List<p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>I found my time with myself over the years extremely edifying. Half-pint trips to cafes, the movies, the book shops, or even the local nursery lady for a cup of tea. Allowing yourself the time to cognize all that only merely floated through your mind amidst your dreadful industriousness tends make you feel freer, I feel. Of course, some esprit de corps is delightful, but once I started taking myself all over the city, I realised I wasn't appreciating my own presence enough. It's an unnoticeably tiny part of it, but it makes you comprehend the need for a lot of us to travel to places alone, because it's not the newness of an alien city you're trying to discover. Contemplation, and perusal of self is key.<br />I've iterated this in one of the Blogmases - everyone should live alone once. As social animals, there's nothing more discomforting, and challenging than to accept your own company. I reckon, maybe that's why humans came up with the concept of gallivanting, in the first place centuries ago - to not having to face oneself; I mean, there's always the off-chance that you'd just find yourself utterly despicable, too. Joke. Though, I do feel when you've lived alone, once, there's not a lot you're not able to do.<br />A lot of us never get out from under the frills Daddies provide. And, that's absolutely acceptable, as an individual's choice, as well. However, there's the stark distinctiveness of autarchy, that sets away people who know well enough how to survive, if life ever comes to that, from ones who were too assured with Daddy-funded comfort. Of course, it's a fair choice to choose to live with your parents; it's family, after all. And, there are a lot of us who choose to, with the intention of nobly looking after them.<br />All I'm saying is, try. Because, people who have struggled to cook a proper meal, or tried to kickstart their days without having coffee brought to their bedside, or juggled, failingly or not, to handle work, and home, know how to take care of things that should, undoubtedly, mean something to you; and, more importantly, know how to take care of themselves. There will be times when you're the caretaker, and the other, when you're a brat; and, I can't stress this enough, but both are necessary, because everything overdone, does take a toll. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>There won't always be days when it'll be an impossible feat to experience any parameter of normalcy, even at the bare minimum. A lot of us mistake hustling with unendingly burning the midnight oil. It's also a downward spiralling loop of constantly being tired.<br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>But, pay attention to people who live alone, and do it artfully enough for them to be placed in a gallery. Notice how they create their own little worlds to thrive in. There's an unparalleled warmth to them.<br /></i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>For all those who dream of an eerier world, there'll always be warm beds, blue skies, soft music, birds chirping in the morning. So, stay in, and be with yourself. There's always the next day.<br /></i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Nothing can replace the privacy between you, and yourself, for that's you, rightfully taking your own little spot in the world.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImE__EbkdxIqfBNppg_mzpjxgJO5wwmt3-oZRyunBcoyPf6Ic2F9R2BxcvftQSYMsBXCGUV9phV4_n7qzldeAZOWa-Pk0SNgdBVe3WFkGas-mBDQffq33BZd9Rre1RMlDIxryhaCtdWs/s1600/Chris+Phillips.gif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImE__EbkdxIqfBNppg_mzpjxgJO5wwmt3-oZRyunBcoyPf6Ic2F9R2BxcvftQSYMsBXCGUV9phV4_n7qzldeAZOWa-Pk0SNgdBVe3WFkGas-mBDQffq33BZd9Rre1RMlDIxryhaCtdWs/w400-h300/Chris+Phillips.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Chris Phillips</i></td></tr></tbody></table><b style="font-family: times;"><br /></b><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-38787327337872615272020-12-19T01:19:00.002+05:302020-12-19T01:19:57.992+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Eighteen: Cool Yule<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Some people over the years have asked me if I take other people's opinion into consideration before writing what I do. The fact of the matter is, the answer to that question is a hard no. A lot of the things said here might matter to a lot of people. But, it's written mainly because they matter to me.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I'm a bit on the fence about how abashed I am about not being amenable enough toward myself earlier. I reckon subconsciously, for almost an eon, I believed it to be imperative for a certain amount of us trying to be a part of the same race, to be exactly the same, cookie-cut people. And, a lot of times I took cues from anyone, and everyone around me. Until a point came when a genuine reaction from me seemed confusing enough to know if it really was me anymore, or not. I abhor the thought that I put my mind through that, at all. Abhor even more, that it took me so long to gather that I didn't have to like myself at any point of time, as long as I loved me enough to keep working on me. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>It takes a while to fathom, but being inspired isn't all it's cracked up to be; at least, not the way we were taught to be. I was introduced to the works of this stunning artist by my boss today. To say I was moved by it, would be a vast understatement. The old me would probably have been jealous, and livid at not being able to do everything that man could. But, I was agape. To a lot of us, inspiration is taught as the process to adopt everything good, and bold about a person. Someone forgot to add the process about learning from it, instead of adopting it. I saw this artist's works, and all I could think of was the brilliance of his growth, and evolution. Sure, in the foreground, all things seem beautiful. Though, barely a handful want to go scouring about the struggle underneath it all.<br />And, it's one of the reasons I feel, I fell in love with being a designer. There's a story waiting to be revealed about everything. We only look for it.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>So, no. I write about what matters to me. Because, for the longest time I dubbed my voice down. And, it has a lot to share.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1-u7wf10X_YCRtBm9FW5Z5a_FEXmZMA-LAW0WCDnwIHQCJIKrlVLaFxxNe7JZrleyYI33fVO8gaS65ImPUOptBVSqg4AhZKGt9gCTwm34ic-sCnzY1PHLiKBZ4c1qDADzDx_qrdrcRI/s800/Peter+Karim.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1-u7wf10X_YCRtBm9FW5Z5a_FEXmZMA-LAW0WCDnwIHQCJIKrlVLaFxxNe7JZrleyYI33fVO8gaS65ImPUOptBVSqg4AhZKGt9gCTwm34ic-sCnzY1PHLiKBZ4c1qDADzDx_qrdrcRI/w400-h300/Peter+Karim.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: <a class="url" href="https://dribbble.com/Peterkarimdribbble" rel="contact" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: start; text-decoration-line: none; transition: color 200ms ease 0s; vertical-align: baseline;">Peter Karim</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-40916752374702621852020-12-18T01:19:00.001+05:302020-12-18T01:19:13.431+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Seventeen: Blue Christmas<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i> A lot of the times it's easy to come off as erratic for your choices of bents.<br />I didn't fathom a lot of things my parents did, when I was younger. I could, but I didn't. <br />"Hold the bottle tightly." "Not near the glass!" "Who's going to pay for this?"<br />It was easier as kids to infer it was always about the money, until you start yielding some of your own. Which then, you employ to start piecing yourself a beautiful life, and that's when you cotton onto all the times you thought they were being mean. I've only latterly corralled the parallels between me, and my parents in the way I take care of my house, car, belongings. It's one thing to look after something well, because you wanted that item; because it's selfish, it's a materialistic response to your materialistic desires. It's a whole different thing when it's a part of your own world you've cemented together.<br /></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I grew up in Delhi. For those of you who don't know, Delhi means a lot of forest, greens all around, balconies and verandahs in your home, wide roads, and the smell of Gulmohar in the air when winters befell. And, one of the things I barely descry now are the plants. Either the houses in Bombay resemble too much to a matchbox, or people are robotically, too busy running around to be taking care of another life (but God forbid if anyone comments on their five children).<br />I saw this often as a child. Everyone's houses with a lot of plants, and everyone taking care of them. And, I grew up with that as well. If there's one thing I can always recall is a pot of mint leaves, and palms. I remember seeing my mother upset when a big pot of a money plant broke, in one of their rented apartments way back when I was hardly able to cogitate; there isn't a tonne that I remember from that period in life, but I do remember this. It was only a plant to me then. It's not anymore.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>There are things that can be bought, and there are things that you fashion methodically, and piecemeal by piecemeal, by pouring love into them. Plants, getting the palette for your home together gradually, making certain the coffee table books all around thread a story together, making sure everything around you has a reason to exist. I understand why they frenzied at times, because they knew, not just the one in your bank, but everything around you adds on to your wealth. And, on behalf of fifteen beautiful plants, a tonne of beautiful books, and a psychotically organised hourse, I can vouch for this to be true. (only still fifteen more for become the crazy plant lady)</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnVABaLPI9iZDzioPvksojIaA86za5zALKMqnAHlD7z8KB9oLfFVpMFcp-ZgTkZws30_2ZxNgbl5XrgBIdkjAWFKDsdkoz4kIyXA1-3zd52OeF9sug9GoTP3bwlpKqy-EfUdyKQphAQPc/s800/Jonathan+Dahl.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnVABaLPI9iZDzioPvksojIaA86za5zALKMqnAHlD7z8KB9oLfFVpMFcp-ZgTkZws30_2ZxNgbl5XrgBIdkjAWFKDsdkoz4kIyXA1-3zd52OeF9sug9GoTP3bwlpKqy-EfUdyKQphAQPc/w400-h300/Jonathan+Dahl.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Jonathan Dahl</i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-88355335450847396602020-12-17T00:47:00.000+05:302020-12-17T00:47:27.160+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Sixteen: Frosty<p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Do you ever feel haunted by people? And, I don't mean dead. I mean functioning, alive people. <br /></i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>I've often remarked that we put our love out to the world very hopefully on our good days. And, by chance, someone gets a whiff of it, and they like what they're caught in the middle of, something extraordinary happens. People fall in love, everyday. Unfailingly. Some of them, even irrevocably. </i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>It's not often a cakewalk to run into exactly what you seek. It's actually a snowball's chance. Yet, a lot of us do. And, when I witness something of the sort, I only wish they both know how fortunate they are. Because, most of us, plainly put, aren't. Being unlucky in love, and just having a luck that wouldn't even let you have the chance to pick yourself up, when you fall, are two drastically varied things. My heart breaks for the latter, because we don't know the struggles a lot of us are having to go through.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Some people are vacuums. Regardless of how many times you pull the plug, time and time again, the battery kicks in, welding the loop where it was broken, and restarting the agony all over again.<br />There are things about our own behaviour that are taught to us for a veritably major chunk of our lives. Sadly enough, no one teaches us a thing about others'. It's a bit numbing to spot somebody's suffering, only because one, we're not looking for it, and two, it's well hidden. People going through phases of undeserved toxicity feel too deeply. Mostly, it's masked well enough in a cloak of flippancy, and easy laughter. I believe they're also attempting to forget just how haunted they feel all the time.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>None of us can manage to be kind to everyone, and everything, even on our best days.<br />But, we can be observant, even on our worst days. So, be. Someone might need your help. Because you might not be what they seek, or the other way around. But, we're all seeking help for something unresolved in us. So, extend that hand out; you'll either end up helping someone, or getting some help.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijixf25Zs37RFmx9BOiFQTHHu02gFdYb2fMRzvdSbkfW0gLLkWFZToLsNKxB0e6hZ579n4Uxpt-hu_zuJXWzmp1SOTLN7UhEwsZ4R7cGf-8lKwVXzffckrxkgINteVBTmOgMvLzrUQXpg/s800/Furkan+So%25CC%2588yler.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijixf25Zs37RFmx9BOiFQTHHu02gFdYb2fMRzvdSbkfW0gLLkWFZToLsNKxB0e6hZ579n4Uxpt-hu_zuJXWzmp1SOTLN7UhEwsZ4R7cGf-8lKwVXzffckrxkgINteVBTmOgMvLzrUQXpg/w400-h300/Furkan+So%25CC%2588yler.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Furkan Söyler</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-87192083222222900182020-12-16T00:26:00.002+05:302020-12-16T00:26:55.769+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Fifteen: Santa Baby<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Every jazz takes time. And, the feeblest of things help.<br />The next time you drink coffee, and your day feels slightly more fulfilled than the few seconds before, pay attention why; if it was the taste, or colour or the apt temperature. It's knowing more about what you like, right? And, we don't do that anymore - try to find things about something we like. Sure, coffee isn't a piece of art - though, I could well argue that it is - but, it is a tiny bit of your everyday affair with you. We're bent on waiting for the next big thing to occur, and we keep letting all the details pass us by. I don't think life happens in any other way, but little by little. Grab it.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Until then. More tomorrow.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJVl-5FGh8nL2nctJDdhH-gvFgElDbVQUsLfLLAivhdF-UqbnoWs84jdNSh3fYkfEFJtgc_qGgVGm8n0G_2mcx_g7hDCZxls18WBZAxwdg3u6-1quJEPkA8fr-Oq-cIwpI0NkLbN8KpsI/s800/Brent.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJVl-5FGh8nL2nctJDdhH-gvFgElDbVQUsLfLLAivhdF-UqbnoWs84jdNSh3fYkfEFJtgc_qGgVGm8n0G_2mcx_g7hDCZxls18WBZAxwdg3u6-1quJEPkA8fr-Oq-cIwpI0NkLbN8KpsI/w400-h300/Brent.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Brent</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-34010986552784285322020-12-15T00:22:00.002+05:302020-12-15T00:22:29.631+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Fourteen: Noël<p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>For the better part of the year, most days were dead reality. They came in each day with no itinerary, or an upshot. We really put the motion, in going through the motions; so much so, just an old song was enough on days to unnerve. There are</i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i> a lot of people, who lost a thing or a person too many this year.<br />Jobs, family, friends, projects, hopes, dreams...<br />A lot of things, for a lot of us died this year. As one of the smarter species, we're quite brainlessly assaying to depart to better things, only because we couldn't hold on to a good thing. That's a folly. No one ever found anything better by leaving a good thing behind. You find a good thing, feel lucky for having so, and work to the bone at making it better. And, this is an underlying issue with most of us - assuming we'll find a better thing, because we have gotten used to having everything facilely. And, even more of us have forgotten that struggle is what makes that good thing far superior, because you know you've earned it.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>So, I'm here, raising a glass, to everything all of us have lost at some point in life.<br />A raised glass, not to hitting the trail, but to accede everything good that we had, which is now dead.<br />A glass, in the spirit of letting all that hurts us, faintly die.<br />Look at yourself. Look at your life. And, look hard. You are, unequivocally, carrying a dead weight.<br />You have somethings that are taking up dead space. Torn books, failed projects, bad days, toxic relationships, empty promises, recycled dreams - let it die in peace, or else it'll die within you.<br />And, you're not a graveyard, you're a creator. So, act like it.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvHTBcYXGmgyjA94hq7v_mpijuhotofNcWzhcpSWuEQQVx93WQIrp6TYtxGKVkXv8V4LfCvwVSDU7brpEBoCB70svOmr9MDx9ntcrhTA2hNKOYp9zYPc5gRyodgGQZR_V-RRt9_inUdA4/s800/Sasha.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvHTBcYXGmgyjA94hq7v_mpijuhotofNcWzhcpSWuEQQVx93WQIrp6TYtxGKVkXv8V4LfCvwVSDU7brpEBoCB70svOmr9MDx9ntcrhTA2hNKOYp9zYPc5gRyodgGQZR_V-RRt9_inUdA4/w400-h300/Sasha.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Sasha</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-23819697586766541152020-12-14T00:09:00.002+05:302020-12-14T00:09:24.525+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Thirteen: Mistletoe<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Remember when we were kids, and the sporadic, puny feats would make us feel invincible enough to grow up to be anything we wanted? And, there wasn't just one role we anticipated ourselves playing; there were volumes of them. Yes. How's that going, by the way?</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>As children, we manifest ourselves to ourselves at multiple chances. As we grow - and, I don't mean grow up, but grow older - we tend to do this in our own times; in secret places, behind closed doors. I don't reckon it's the apprehension of being held up to an opinion, and flak all the time, but despondency in our own selves. So, we find ways to create; or, better yet, escape.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I'm aware, I've spoken enough about it, but this place holds a special place in my heart. Deer Park girdles every Sunday morning with my parents, as a kid. It skirts my bunk schedules in college, to hide in a cafe writing, overlooking the lake, and the forest beyond. It contains all my low points, and long walks of woe. It's my bucket of memories, lessons, and peace. I don't give a lot of thought to death, or the impending doom of it. But, I've always deep down known - if I were ever to go to heaven, it would be a silhouette of that Park, with every trail, every dew on every leaf on every misty winter morning.<br />It is my place where I catalyse, it is my place where I vanish, only to meet myself more often.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>For the lack of all the things I never could be, I knew I was always welcome there; without judgement, without question. Oftentimes, we find ourselves in places, people, or in different times of a day.<br />To each their own.<br /></i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>And, whichever you've picked as your heart's studio or diversion, make sure you have one.<br />It's difficult enough to live pervasively in reality all the time, as is. Ensure that you have someplace where it's only you, and your heart. Your mind can stay away to think. Find your place, or person where your heart can unload, and breathe. Find a place that's an alibi to your heart's happy.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>More tomorrow. Until then. </i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftttcAw-n2OMxR-lickPnXmeUbLfifVgaQSs_s-XXGC_mUaP78kVTC2vw75yvat_vod6I_8ziHnDSqqqHQI-IXfSPGB1NoSdYCzs-pZtTusxPACVM4V3M2ECbvKyQhh3epOJlynDegaA/s800/Dmytro+Novitskyi.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftttcAw-n2OMxR-lickPnXmeUbLfifVgaQSs_s-XXGC_mUaP78kVTC2vw75yvat_vod6I_8ziHnDSqqqHQI-IXfSPGB1NoSdYCzs-pZtTusxPACVM4V3M2ECbvKyQhh3epOJlynDegaA/w400-h300/Dmytro+Novitskyi.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Dmytro Novitskyi</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-63298552666229277632020-12-12T22:58:00.000+05:302020-12-12T22:58:10.367+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Twelve: Holly<p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Workplaces all over the world are dreadfully condemnatory, and discriminatory. And, at times blindly run, as well. What dictates us to mostly continue dwell there is either love for what we do, or necessity. I've followed suit to the prior, but the latter must be a load of pants.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Like I said <a href="https://lizardtailgonecrazy.blogspot.com/2020/12/blogmas-2020-day-eleven-silent-night.html">here</a> yesterday. Ambition. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>There's a price to pay to for indulging in it. And, that price is your independence. When you rise from the ground up, there's a lot to ameliorate from being zealous, because you gain more than what you had. When you already have a cushion to launch off of, you're in the position to be enriched by others' ambitions. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Like I said yesterday, need because of greed is ambition, and the price of that is your independence. Need because of need is helplessness, and this time, peace is the price to pay. And, with your peace as the price to pay, the one thing you're never able to do is surround yourself with people who would share a quid pro quo with you, where growth is the bottom line. So, even when you're trying hard enough to outline a geography that stands for every piece of your belief, you can't. Then you end up either learning the dirty game, and believing it the only way to be, or you play the dirty game long enough to start loving it.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>It takes a third, a very special, and stubborn, and persevering, and an honest kind to have the gall to stand through that dirty game, and still keep your hands clean, and more so your conscience.<br /></i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>We're all a different tone of tenacious. Some deeper than the others. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>And, ignominy is something everyone is subjected to at some point, which is mostly alright, because we can take care of our own selves, at the very least. What one can never tolerate is the same happening to someone we love. Because, there's something to be said about feeling someone else's pain more acutely than they do.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>I wish someone gave a handbook early enough in life for how to be a good person; your own person. I wish even harder that someone taught us, to unaffectedly stay that way when we were subjected to people who walk a path opposite to what we believe in. I found this handbook by watching my parents.<br />As a kid, you tend to question the universe a lot why it presented snags for these two people, particularly. As a teen, you question them about shoving the dirt back where it's coming from.<br />As an adult, you understand they were only doing this to bolster your roots. Funny thing, parents.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Not everything is always rosy for everyone. It would be dim to entertain such a thought.<br />And, we've all hit rock bottom. Sure, it's dingy down there. But the best part is that after it, there's no place else to go but up. Remember that.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoeGsAnMZ2u9Ao-BVGx2_laq0zJ18RM1wCu_OuUBKtDgDiWwySb7bct0yh5pcJuEhbwdXpMAntso_rwH-x_E0jXrgdiUP0NI8wOIsGLvaLaPph3S5gxFGs6ZeOlYZAzHqUQBQWATHVzI/s1600/Illo.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoeGsAnMZ2u9Ao-BVGx2_laq0zJ18RM1wCu_OuUBKtDgDiWwySb7bct0yh5pcJuEhbwdXpMAntso_rwH-x_E0jXrgdiUP0NI8wOIsGLvaLaPph3S5gxFGs6ZeOlYZAzHqUQBQWATHVzI/w400-h300/Illo.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Illo</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-43964900445162024812020-12-12T02:41:00.006+05:302020-12-12T20:50:35.479+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Eleven: Silent Night<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b>Whoever suggested to live your every day like its the last, was either downright poor, or radically wealthy. And, funnily enough neither of them believes this to be true because both of them desire abundance all the time - one because of need, and the other greed. The dear, sandwiched middle class walks with both. Greed because of need is dubitable, need because of greed is ambition. The prior is the indulgence of the rich, the latter, the custom for the middle class. </b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: times;"><b>And, that's all I'm going to put here tonight for your thought. So, give it one, because I will talk about this more tomorrow. Until then.</b></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: times;"></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrluo0wY4qHDDmtdrGVX8m8LVOFloE-J_7WAGiTTdlQ4p4JAwRNCl8ClOhuZIoITZpdVSQsl_7RAz4Va1cb2WnTyClTngN0x7ajJ-4f14Hy9Wld8Z-Lk9Jw96IbnwJfumlhVzlTEhVQcc/s800/Furkan+So%25CC%2588yler+2.gif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrluo0wY4qHDDmtdrGVX8m8LVOFloE-J_7WAGiTTdlQ4p4JAwRNCl8ClOhuZIoITZpdVSQsl_7RAz4Va1cb2WnTyClTngN0x7ajJ-4f14Hy9Wld8Z-Lk9Jw96IbnwJfumlhVzlTEhVQcc/w400-h300/Furkan+So%25CC%2588yler+2.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Furkan Söyler</i></td></tr></tbody></table><i style="font-family: times;"><br /></i><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-53207775168624431472020-12-11T01:15:00.001+05:302020-12-11T01:15:34.239+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Ten: Blue Velvet<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i> Being alright with both, when something you tried manifesting, does, and didn't, is a very bold space to be. Funnily enough, there's a lot of self added in every verb we need to describe our behaviour towards ourselves. Talk about emphasising the point. Everyone has their own way of practising self-(insert desired verb here). Mine is, a lot of the times, with music. And, that holds true for the majority of us.<br />Just a good, ol' Rewind for today.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>"...you were staring down the street 'cause you were,<br />tryin' not to crack up,<br />It wasn't like a rain, it was more like a sea..."</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>"....I was three days on a drunken sin,<br />I woke with her walls around me,<br />Nothin' in her room but an empty crib..."</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>"...kerosene in my hand,<br />you made me mad,<br />On fire again, all the pills that you take..."<br /><br />"...In the skies over black Venice,<br />I see eyes of a white menace,<br />The surprise of the week,<br />is that I never heard the sound,<br />All the L.A. women..."<br /><br />"...So you vanished in the night,<br />Missouri River in the distance,<br />so I lied upon the lawn,<br />I remember walking against the darkness of the beach...."</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>"...just as fickle as a feather in a stream,<br />See, honey, I saw love, you see it came to me,<br />It put its face up to my face so I could see...."</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>"...ज़िन्दगी धूप,<br />तुम घना छाया..."</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i>You can check out the previous BlogMas Rewinds below.</i></b></span><br /><i><b><a href="https://lizardtailgonecrazy.blogspot.com/2015/12/blogmas-2015-day-four.html" target="_blank">2015</a> <a href="https://lizardtailgonecrazy.blogspot.com/2016/12/blogmas-2016-day-eight-little-ol-little.html" target="_blank">2016</a> <a href="https://lizardtailgonecrazy.blogspot.com/2017/12/blogmas-2017-day-ten-bits.html" target="_blank">2017</a> <a href="https://lizardtailgonecrazy.blogspot.com/2018/12/blogmas-2018-day-eighteen-marrow.html" target="_blank">2018</a> <a href="https://lizardtailgonecrazy.blogspot.com/2019/12/blogmas-day-fifteen-chant.html">2019</a></b></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>More tomorrow. Until then.</b></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyTuO8fwR4ovWKFA3kDpkDL5AZRpnDO-x_feybzclGOBtXtF1b3XwXe9zpIzV_cP7qk54qqzfbxgA0omq4Vc-D04RrqC2braBsBXVjoejs4vpauq9dazH30peTJKwE4DyOYeV5ZNAZaTY/s400/Marcus+Magnusson+2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyTuO8fwR4ovWKFA3kDpkDL5AZRpnDO-x_feybzclGOBtXtF1b3XwXe9zpIzV_cP7qk54qqzfbxgA0omq4Vc-D04RrqC2braBsBXVjoejs4vpauq9dazH30peTJKwE4DyOYeV5ZNAZaTY/w400-h300/Marcus+Magnusson+2.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Marcus Magnusson</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></i></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-58404837344148946582020-12-10T01:41:00.004+05:302020-12-10T01:41:37.250+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Nine: Tum Ghana Chhaya<p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>In my teens, I dreamt about everything materialistic. In my early 20s, I dreamt about money. In my latter 20s, well, there's a lot more. We grow, we grow up, and we place a price on what's vital to have.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>We put a value to worth in diverse measures. Even ourselves. Especially, ourselves. Whoever taught us, or told us that we're the kind to which a denomination can be placed. It's easy to believe good things about yourself; easier to believe the bad ones. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>We're often not very hospitable to ourselves. We're all torn between believing whether we're virtuous of our own love, or not. I'm not very implicit at this point, why we're in a steady battle with ourselves because of others' demeanours. It's an impact, sure. But, I feel we give too much of a voice to others, before we remember to give ours a value. </i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I've always felt criticism, feedback, and discipline is the healthiest way to grow. And, I hold a deep respect, in a place very personal in me, for people who believe, and practice the same. And, that's not because of an incidental similarity. It's because I know where they're coming from when they walk up and down that altar everyday. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>What I don't believe the healthiest way to grow is humiliation. A lot of us practice it. What people fail to do is understand the lack of corroboration between a humiliation, and a challenge. So, a</i></b></span><b style="font-family: times;"><i> lot more of us practice it in masked ways. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>I'm not perfect, and I won't pretend to be. I have behaved in the past in ways, forget finding acceptable, I am, to put it plainly revolted by it. Sometimes, bad days turn us into a bad person. That's not to say there's anything appalling about it; it's just human. A bad day is like a soda can that slipped out of your hands, just as you were about to open it. If you open it instantly, the soda is going to blow up in your face. If you wait long enough, it'll fizz out. Same thing, we're soda bottles. In the latter, though, I'm afraid, at times we wait too long, either trying to simmer down, or looking to find the appropriate words. This leaves us with nothing being as impactful as we wish for it to be anymore. Now, </i>that <i>gets massed up. More often than not, we end up taking those ostentatious deposits out on ourselves.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Just as hard we attempt on a bad day, not to hurt the people we love, I can't, for the life of me, comprehend why we keep throwing ourselves under the bus, instead. So, when we try taking a tough day, a bit fluidly, we hold a guilt for it. And, there's also the off chance to be labelled selfish. A lot of the prior boils down to assuming what, and how much of it we deserve. Again, who asked you to put a number on it? We're taught that for others, we have to be selfless. I think we've been taught it the wrong way around. We need to be selfish for others, just as much as for ourselves. And, that line starts with us. Because you can't drive a car with a broken foot.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b>Be selfish. Be it aggressively, on some days. There's a 100% no chance that you'll be able to put a smile on everyone's faces around you. But, there is a 100% chance you can put a smile on your face. And, even if that's all you can manage, that's still one person more you helped smile today.</b></i></span><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>A lot of things deserve to be placed first in life, and a lot of them, seconds. But, not yourself. </i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIlNzfc72U4D4Fk9Oh-gp3SDJRk2WSD_qRwgdnQrC_xnp-qabZZ3eVMY08bVC5ClJ495w5emW0Y0ypgjjUQcvM_d24CWrPczgu7_9Iz-ku6r1y6lUNiTMMmYdqS8dkf2ELdEISptXzbq4/s800/Animade.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIlNzfc72U4D4Fk9Oh-gp3SDJRk2WSD_qRwgdnQrC_xnp-qabZZ3eVMY08bVC5ClJ495w5emW0Y0ypgjjUQcvM_d24CWrPczgu7_9Iz-ku6r1y6lUNiTMMmYdqS8dkf2ELdEISptXzbq4/w400-h300/Animade.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Animade</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-26422568343409744442020-12-08T23:56:00.002+05:302020-12-08T23:56:40.492+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Eight: Cinnamon Girl<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i> Self-doubt. Self-confidence. Self-love. Plants. Invasion. Completion. Phases. Barricades. Paranoia. Hope. Success. Laughs. Puppers. Help. Possibilities. Comfort zones. Discomfort. Criticism. Faith. Direction. Growth. Panic. Alarm. Revivals. More plants. Accusations. Silences. Oranges. Pretence. Loss. Enlightenment. </i></b></span><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Illusions of friendships. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Broken friendships. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Friendships that wouldn't let go. </i></b><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Decisions. Pain. Strangers. Unconditionality. Newness. Even more plants. Seek. Self-respect. Dreams. Some more plants. More hope.<br /></i></b></span><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Work. And, more.<br /><br />What're you thankful for this year?<br />More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0xIUgim4C2kHlfUdQAYLtm0WY9XOzpHdA0jxUaEsKtRKzywHoZlZTkLmVFwGDWL7lSiD-2JrMb0Qf88KJuRSXdj7jE4KRGZ3Wm6Q6f9hZeimZm_PsXT5lXFfYn6rZe0gB3Z6cIMVRtMQ/s800/tgr.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0xIUgim4C2kHlfUdQAYLtm0WY9XOzpHdA0jxUaEsKtRKzywHoZlZTkLmVFwGDWL7lSiD-2JrMb0Qf88KJuRSXdj7jE4KRGZ3Wm6Q6f9hZeimZm_PsXT5lXFfYn6rZe0gB3Z6cIMVRtMQ/w400-h300/tgr.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: </i><a class="user-name" href="https://dribbble.com/08080913Tgr" rel="contact" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #0d0c22; line-height: 29px; margin: 16px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; transition: color 200ms ease 0s; vertical-align: baseline;">小老虎-tgr</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-56761596799378741192020-12-08T00:05:00.000+05:302020-12-08T00:05:10.567+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Seven: Jhankaar<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Over the past few years, I've turned into a massive advocate of energy. And, a major lesson I've derived from that belief is patience. A lot of us enact as being the sort of people "who let things take their natural course." As another human myself, I can say I have it on good authority, the majority of us don't hold the kind of grit to be tailgating that theory. I was one of them. I would rush into things, on the pretext if I don't give it my 200%, it's not going to happen. And, how wrong I was. </i></b></span><b style="font-family: times;"><i>For some of us, we deem we're giving something more than our all. But in effect, the truth is, for the longest time we're never able to figure, how much of our all, is really our all. It's an immensely tricky thing to know of.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Our minds are our sanctum. So, when we assume we're giving our 200%, and we fail, that same mind uses up all its corners, including the little sanctuary you created in it. And, there goes the peace of mind. And, we do this often, don't we? Allow something external to ruin what's perfectly intact internally. You have to trust that your "all" is enough to get you through. We often see our debacles as us being scarce, and it's easier to forget there's always peripheral plights in play, as well. </i></b><b style="font-family: times;"><i>You're not your successes, and failures, but a mere medium that oscillates the pendulum that causes it. You're the best, and worst of you. You only need to pick the right cards to play.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Nothing in life needs more than a 100% of you. Firstly, because the scales would always tip the wrong way, and secondly, it's not fair to you.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisU4ke4Dr267ALbOFOXsEDwigKaE0KKMJOVLnwMG53UyN3UoLqtGb7hp3_dAiP5xSH9kID8ZfwBP9MV1-n_3X8eOAC8nRsLTRdoK5zDUs7qc2UJj9KqZqKWBQXDVN5ir2De5H5FkAHp9w/s800/Hunan.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisU4ke4Dr267ALbOFOXsEDwigKaE0KKMJOVLnwMG53UyN3UoLqtGb7hp3_dAiP5xSH9kID8ZfwBP9MV1-n_3X8eOAC8nRsLTRdoK5zDUs7qc2UJj9KqZqKWBQXDVN5ir2De5H5FkAHp9w/w400-h300/Hunan.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Hunan</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-58149161045654808612020-12-06T23:08:00.002+05:302020-12-06T23:08:53.558+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Six: Blue Jeans<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>There are infinite moments between where we're now, and where we wish to be. Though, it's glib how we're never chuffed with our current situation. And, we're easily petrified of the space that keeps us apart from our wishing place.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Some people call it future planning. Though, I'm not sure it really is that. Money, no object, success, healthy relationships - the usual memo? Although while ticking through the checklist that gets you there, or wherever else you anticipate, do you have a list to make sure you're taking more with you, than leaving more behind? Didn't reckon so. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>We ardently lie to ourselves about what it is we want, because we either aren't brave enough to accept what we want, or zealous enough to put in the work to verily seize the same. And, once we stop lying to ourselves, that's the most truthful we'll ever be in our lives. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>There's an elephant in the room that we never address, mostly because there's a multiverse of rooms with even bigger elephants, no one remotely wants to even ponder over. Either, we teach ourselves to love a version of our future that seems acceptable enough, and settle. Or, some of us settle with a hatred towards our future, because we could be least bothered to be hating ourselves for not being dauntless enough to alter it. The future you're trying, or not, to alter, is going to be your new home at some point. And, homes are not meant to be places that you settle for, or hate. Because, honestly, where else do we really have to go? It's a spiralling descent; we're constantly moving into a life, which we need to constantly recover from. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>That black hole between the you now, and the future, will be a nasty place. There might be regrettable times; your work might suck, or you'll have to consume average coffee, or hustle unnecessarily. There'll be realisations, fights, uncomfortable negotiations, a lot of do-overs.<br />Hold on; still. No one ever told great stories by creating an unparalleled life from the get go.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b></b></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-TuZR0cGEseBZd0YnJwucC6rcV0o9N0sSSLfa0VGgnqVzCoed_2iz35y-amLDo30bFU_noOV-Q3YKEFrBliSyZH2thdmB26cMvmg4okjtEbZi9gkmAXrVHGc4Xz-zENqnR0IflkWlGx4/s800/Happy+Holidays+by+Panic.gif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-TuZR0cGEseBZd0YnJwucC6rcV0o9N0sSSLfa0VGgnqVzCoed_2iz35y-amLDo30bFU_noOV-Q3YKEFrBliSyZH2thdmB26cMvmg4okjtEbZi9gkmAXrVHGc4Xz-zENqnR0IflkWlGx4/w400-h300/Happy+Holidays+by+Panic.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Panic</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: times;"><b><br /></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b style="color: #660000;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000;"><i>A.</i></b></span></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-9213052707653361482020-12-06T00:30:00.000+05:302020-12-06T00:30:04.869+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Five: Pink Rabbits<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: times;">Deliberate about how people closest to you hurt you. </span><span style="font-family: times;">Calculatedly, or not, venting, or insulting. Mostly all quandaries are solvable, except the last. It takes a specific kind ignorance to dig deep, and cramp someone that way.</span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: times;">Respect is a mighty thing. It's sheer elusiveness makes for a very tactile ache, when there's a lack of it. Even worse, is the idea of being respected. </span><span style="font-family: times;">Here's what I think. Someone can be closest to you, or mad for you, or worked with you for years, and still not respect you. And, more often than not, I've descried this happening with almost everyone around me. The issue is intuiting it.</span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: times;">Disrespect would mean even a meagre presence of the opposite. But, a lack of....<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">And, when you happen onto the void of it, it's a distant kind of grief. It's the kind that leaves a bulging scar you feel every time you itch. </span><span style="font-family: times;">It's not something that goes away with a self-care routine of bubble baths and a glass of wine. </span><span style="font-family: times;">There'll be a lot of times when you can feel an inkling of the lack of, but for all the acceptable scenarios, your mind will trick you to brush it off. Don't. And, especially if it feels uncomfortable even for a moment. </span><span style="font-family: times;">We're not a generation known to be practising prudence. We're all the same, wearing a different cloak, riding to the same tune of rapacity. That's also all of us meeting the same people, only with different faces; and, I'm tired of it.</span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>So walk off, grieve for all that you misunderstood. Grieve wholly, and grieve graciously. But, do it while ensuring, that even if you've been on the receiving end of this misdemeanour, that you're not ever on the opposite end of that rope. Because, the regret of that is even worse.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: times;"></span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>So I'll come back to what I said. See how people hurt you. Because where there is respect, there'll be caution in anger, as well.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: times; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vF9xwXGckBp3e12KFORDXjDEr2HvsKmRJRLjLff4tj9v71ubO2_mc5i-gHr0cKwuXGHNV8ibru0LZfct0lMk8Nt7I29Ty2O76Er03Mj_5t3lmSaq4j3BblQJ6ayKeX514qwYerv6vcw/s800/Amy+Hsieh.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vF9xwXGckBp3e12KFORDXjDEr2HvsKmRJRLjLff4tj9v71ubO2_mc5i-gHr0cKwuXGHNV8ibru0LZfct0lMk8Nt7I29Ty2O76Er03Mj_5t3lmSaq4j3BblQJ6ayKeX514qwYerv6vcw/w400-h300/Amy+Hsieh.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Amy Hsieh<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><i>A.</i></b></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-5197001301352974292020-12-05T02:06:00.001+05:302020-12-05T16:04:13.880+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Four: Fickle Game<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Are you a perfectionist?<br /></i></b></span><b style="font-family: times;"><i>Is it exhausting?</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I spent my late teens and early 20s trying to make everything immaculate. That induced a crushing alarm to fail at doing so. When you're constantly trying to be vigilant to not commit even the slightest mistake, you lose out on acting for the work you've been fretting about being impeccable in the first place. And, that's the first step to stagnancy, inaction, and failure. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i><span>Remember passing through landscapes as kids while travelling in the train? That's it; movement is requisite for change. And, when you're rendered indolent because of your innate dread of being sophistical, you lose out on doing anything at all. </span>There's a pressing need to rewire the ideology we're taught to work with dramatically. Though, the only way to go about it is introspection. At the end of the day, all of us are well aware of what our potential is, and while some of us find ways very young to harness it, some take a couple of decades. But, it does come through. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I was at a point last year, where I'd grown complacent with my situation. But, how I hadn't grown into it was happily. Not having that peace of mind was gravely taxing. I'd picked a race, I ran it for a few years when I realised I was only looking for another race. but the complacency held me back because by that point I knew how to perfectly run that race. And nothing felt more caging to me ever.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i><span>I needed to get comfortable with discomfort.<br />A</span><span> friend once told me that I need to put myself out there. I need to be unguarded, and more than ready to make mistakes. At that point, it seemed a harsh enough advice, but I reckon he'd gauged something about me that I still hadn't - I learned best from making mistakes. More often than not, life isn't about knowing what to do, but what not to do. Like snakes and ladders; if you know what to avoid, you're good. </span></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I'd always, foolishly enough, paralleled perfection with success. It took me an entire season to realise that people get perfected as they succeed. And, you can't get success by being perfect. And God, wouldn't it be utterly boring to even conjecture such a life; if you always knew how to do everything right in the first go. </i></b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i><span>Success to me now, means maturity, completion, liberty, hustling, regardless if you're ostensively attaining something, or not. The simple resourcefulness to create these likelihoods for yourself when you can do all that, everyday, itself to me is wizardly. It might sound opaque, but it's because mediocrity is the toughest quicksand to draw yourself out of, and create magic. </span>Perfection to me now, is discipline, resilience, ambition, curiosity. A lot of times in life, the concept of perfect is urged onto us by others. Place some hard boundaries for that, and find and conjure your own definition of it. </i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Be vulnerable with yourself, your mistakes. But at whatever pace you do, do it making sure you're moving ahead. Possibly, every closure, and denouement in the beginning will always be less than exemplary, but between your wins and losses, you will survive just enough.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b></b></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs636Jqnf6x5exmStdPo4eYbeLGs5bo1oALuyzMdv9Tjkzk3UN0r2qRf71JpQ9bHucwqUl2CyKEp9oKSOzWaYkeEl2Z7sZT9Tw07Px4OHt02xgE8xde7WoImos8nTLsbhbJa7L-gX4U1Y/s800/Emmeline+Meborn-Hubbard.gif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs636Jqnf6x5exmStdPo4eYbeLGs5bo1oALuyzMdv9Tjkzk3UN0r2qRf71JpQ9bHucwqUl2CyKEp9oKSOzWaYkeEl2Z7sZT9Tw07Px4OHt02xgE8xde7WoImos8nTLsbhbJa7L-gX4U1Y/w400-h300/Emmeline+Meborn-Hubbard.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Emmeline Meborn-Hubbard</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><i><br />Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><i>A.</i></b></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-29123512019908295262020-12-03T23:49:00.000+05:302020-12-03T23:49:01.995+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Three: Jack<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b><span>I love me a Jade plant. The most arresting thing about Jades is that you can shape it any way you like. You prune it one way, and it grows bushier there. </span>Concoct a scenario of being able to snip parts of yourself to grow in that direction. All of us are<span> always someplace else. Now concoct another, of a dimension where you are exactly who you want to be.</span><span> An isotope of you in another time. What are they doing? Are you already that person? Do you even want to be? If so, are you doing enough to be that person? </span>Think hard, and think fast about your gears, that hurt you the most. And, then think a lot on them. either you'll start loving those parts, or you'll want to prune them away. </b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b>The most sublime slant about our minds is, they're always in a state of repair. And, it doesn't stop because, miserably enough, we don't. We keep piling the trash can, but never take it out.<br />If there was a routine cleansing machine for the mind, you wouldn't be mindful about which of your chattels you're picking on. But, there isn't, and we aren't mindful enough of that.</b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b>Often, we're all executing without being aware of it. You see, contentment and sanctuary are two very different things. The prior, is what you seek out, and decide to box yourself into. The latter, is the umbrella you use while you go crazy in the rain. And, the moment we conflate the two, is when you lose track of yourself as a person.</b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b><span>Decorate yourself, in any way that holds any clout for you, and in any meaning you take that to be. I'm aware it is easier said than done, but unless I tell you, it's not an assurance enough for me either to pay heed to my own advice. </span>So I'll ask again. Do you want to be that person? If you do, pick your battles. Or, better yet, don't pick them at all. But, you owe it to that version of yourself you dream of, to work on yourself. And, sham it, if nothing else works. Soon enough, you'll believe it yourself.</b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b>We're all colour of blue, make sure you pick the shade that suits you.</b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b>More tomorrow. Until then.</b></i></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-jXUcCRrqku_ZvHNXAdwlTpECg5sRbtqglq1ZT9BW6m0DdNDc11vJAeOzceG8DF78hfyt9OFoO0wNUVN6NQ2uGmDXht9oITLkmYiClkcMfq43YT82WS_1Zg2C2Q_xXBMDe2Seg-tab4Q/s400/Tigran+Manukyan.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-jXUcCRrqku_ZvHNXAdwlTpECg5sRbtqglq1ZT9BW6m0DdNDc11vJAeOzceG8DF78hfyt9OFoO0wNUVN6NQ2uGmDXht9oITLkmYiClkcMfq43YT82WS_1Zg2C2Q_xXBMDe2Seg-tab4Q/w400-h300/Tigran+Manukyan.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Tigran Manukyan</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><b style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br /></i></b><b style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><i>A.</i></b></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-63695423647723546622020-12-03T00:37:00.001+05:302020-12-03T00:37:11.928+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day Two: Carmen<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: times;"> <span>Who are you? Most importantly, who would you want to be?<br /></span></span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>All of us are schlepping an incompatible image of ourselves than what the world deduces us to be, and we perdure endlessly, hard as hell to muster all that we want our stories to be about, within ourselves. All our minds are alike war zones; you can effortlessly map out shelter areas, the warfront, some tanks, and bazookas lying in an unkempt corner.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b>Take five minutes. Take ten, actually, and try fancying exactly how faultlessly you want your life to turn out a veritable way. That's all it takes. Five minutes, and a lifetime to relentlessly netting it all. But, while doing that, what parts of yourself are you putting out in the meat market to be butchered?</b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b>For all the innumerable units, for every imaginable kind of quantification for distance, areas, monies, time, no one ever came up with one for an emotional stake. With all of us there are moments we barely remember, and some we go over time and time again. That's what's at stake. Your do-over moments, the ones you have no count, rhyme, or reason for. And, what it all will always come down to - to whom you'll say enough, and for whom you'll do enough.</b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><b>You may not wholeheartedly accept who you are this minute, but love yourself nonetheless. That is what will ascend you to where you need to be. </b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><i><b>Be owned by yourself. I don't mean own yourself. Be owned. By you. For when you do, you have to give in, have to submit to yourself. B</b></i></span><i><b>ecause the prior, that's a burden you raise upon yourself even when you don't want to. So, submit to you, listen, and obey you. Be your mirage, and your oasis, all at once.<br /></b></i><b><i>So, I'll ask again. Are you doing enough for yourself?</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyTSqhtpBEfkHSMw2hFn7zLhTyi2fyEGHJqRJ8ZTuZBqCUvdinBRWDUJe8HKT8n7hI6mP9Hfl8et8o5h6SEIBiZDc_r2WBsyd83I8fTyWyjO25x5U0HB4QXYNYJO4yZfFJnlTgVG8s3k/s600/Marcus+Magnusson.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyTSqhtpBEfkHSMw2hFn7zLhTyi2fyEGHJqRJ8ZTuZBqCUvdinBRWDUJe8HKT8n7hI6mP9Hfl8et8o5h6SEIBiZDc_r2WBsyd83I8fTyWyjO25x5U0HB4QXYNYJO4yZfFJnlTgVG8s3k/w400-h265/Marcus+Magnusson.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Marcus Magnusson</i></td></tr></tbody></table></b></span></p><div><span style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><b><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,<br />A.</i></b></span></div>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-9832469385227700362020-12-02T00:56:00.002+05:302020-12-02T00:56:49.720+05:30Blogmas 2020 Day One: Another, Please?<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Hello.<br />Another year. Another Day One. Another Hello. Another year of Blogmas. (you can read the previous years <a href="http://lizardtailgonecrazy.blogspot.com/search/label/24DaysofWriting" target="_blank">here</a>)</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>The year has been apathetic to everyone, to say the least. So, there'll be no talk here about it.<br />It's Christmas, after all.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>And, as impartial times this year have been, the varied perspectives looking at the stunted burgeoning as people has lingered long enough. Growth is incontestable, esoteric, and loud.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>I've been opining, and abstracting our lives to be an endless file room, with a myriad mantles after mantles lined with every second we've spent compassing, committing, executing, feeling, breathing, living, or not. Imagine, walking through such an arbour, and pulling out a file at chance. Imagine, pulling a file outlining everything you went through in a second, that you'd grown heedless about it. Imagine, musing over this one second, bringing forth all the seconds you've been deliberately, and snugly tucking away in files marked confidential. Imagine them aggregating up in silence over the years; parts of you, you wouldn't even bother acceding to anymore; and imagine, spilling your beautiful self all over the floor, when nudged the wrong way.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i><span>What happens to us lying there like that then; bleeding, dazzled, overwhelmed? <br />When that pressure you're trying so hard to sew, wraps about you like a mesh? You can still see life on the outside through its gaps, but in your foreground is that every second you were never prepared to confront, the ones you never thought much of; constantly closing itself into a tighter weave, and shutting you off from the life you were so busy building for yourself. </span><span>Now, either you can absorb this weave of impossibility, and let it play a part in your life, or you can let it envelope you thoroughly, because believe it or not, one day it will. </span></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>If there's anything that I found fetching about us as humans, is that we're illustrated, albeit colourfully, but incongruously, by people around us. I used to conceive this as our grippingly, prismatic understanding of everyone. And, exploratorily now, I've been realising, that it's only because of which window of ours we allow people peek through. I get that, these little bits of surprises people find when they go looking for the other windows. But, most of us don't, for we're all more than happy pretending there's only but one window. We also know that all too well, because we all float in the same boat. And, also mostly because we've locked some of the windows, and thrown the keys in to a vacuum.</i></b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>Carry yourself, your whole self with you. Always. It is a weight, sure. But, it's better than knowing there's a deadweight lurking somewhere behind you, waiting to droop your shoulders, break your back, ready to consume you bit by bit, until you fade for your own self.</i></b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i><span>So, when you count those moments, and feel the even sourer aftertaste of them lingering, will you miss your old self more, or remember it fondly, or distastefully?<br /></span><span>Are there</span><span> parts of your old self, that would you keep for yourself?</span></i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>More tomorrow. Until then, wear a mask.</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJkytJIZC69NG4DtLoNxD_BMe6kWqvgFOO8ibtvmQLo9-6zosB96ZYSKs7HQ6qLZlLM45m9hiW9bSuiiZo1P1rwQ6cWq80AVVjPbzLF1WYqAWK2eTeVdITgXhnp_FfANtSIibT1CZxyBQ/s400/Pierre+Kleinhouse.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJkytJIZC69NG4DtLoNxD_BMe6kWqvgFOO8ibtvmQLo9-6zosB96ZYSKs7HQ6qLZlLM45m9hiW9bSuiiZo1P1rwQ6cWq80AVVjPbzLF1WYqAWK2eTeVdITgXhnp_FfANtSIibT1CZxyBQ/w400-h300/Pierre+Kleinhouse.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Artist: Pierre Kleinhouse</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></span></p><div><span style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><b><i>Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,</i></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #660000; font-family: times;"><b><i>A.</i></b></span></div>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787720458143137081.post-48960683185133326792020-10-18T23:09:00.000+05:302020-10-18T23:09:53.840+05:30Fall lll<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>You tan my heart, as the sky flushes<br />I licked the rain when your tears wouldn't feel wet anymore,<br />Do you yearn only when you reach rock bottom,<br />Or you remember that crookedness only for the way the light at dusk bounced off of it?<br />You mislaid to sweep the debris of who you were, left on my bed last night,<br />And, I stopped writing your story, not because I ended it, but because it was time,<br />And, as you kept falling, it was quicker to imagine my life without you in ten minutes, <br />Than to wholly live them,<br />The ratification for all that you feel,<br />Your deprivation of compassion when the twigs let you go,<br />Between the bosque, and the groves,<br />The shrubbery, and the firewood,<br />I hewed you out of my words, I blotted your skin with my ink,<br />Give me something to scribble, give me something to scatter,<br />I wore your moods, and I lugged your hopes,<br />I dwelt on your dreams, and I walked atop your thorns,<br />You hoped for love, knowing death still lurked,<br />For you found this life every twilight, much less created it when sun shone,<br />Every year you mellow, every year you plummet,<br />I keep you in the voids in my memory,<br />And, yet, you sporadically slip through those holes,<br />Would you still bleed, if I touched you?</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i>If I let you go, would you find yourself again?<br />With a tad darkness in the sky, and the poppies in the air,<br />I stared out the window again, <br />and death had never stopped seeming so colourful!</i></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: times; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3MjWJ78lpMj1JTXX8_pAbsi_XWPvPJFPAu1VuBoiVvgGvODmaP93jCST3F00s6qAWQ_LFd2Cn1EZ7z6G0xcOaiZSVnK4cvd-W5rOfDjFdjou6okLOv8iaxpLkS8yb85riyo_YJws9bo/s800/falling.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3MjWJ78lpMj1JTXX8_pAbsi_XWPvPJFPAu1VuBoiVvgGvODmaP93jCST3F00s6qAWQ_LFd2Cn1EZ7z6G0xcOaiZSVnK4cvd-W5rOfDjFdjou6okLOv8iaxpLkS8yb85riyo_YJws9bo/w400-h300/falling.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-weight: normal;">Artist: Julian Laureau</i></td></tr></tbody></table></p>Akankshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07840076414065289881noreply@blogger.com0