Although I’ve been writing and journalling for the entirety of summer, I haven’t published anything in a very long while. So yes, it’s about damn time. I want to talk about something that I know a lot of teenage girls talk about and a lot of people have experienced. However, what I’m about to talk about was something incredibly new to me and it was something so raw and so naked that I thought I was going to cough out my lungs.
“Broken love is the most dangerous love. It will slice you open with every touch.”
Tiffany Reisz, The Siren
Jim Dingilian proves that a creative and skillful artist can create works of art with just about anything. By coating the interior of empty glass bottles with black smoke and then carefully brushing it away with tools mounted on dowels, he creates detailed and beautiful but dark works of smoke art that are dripping with a sense of suburban decay.
“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
Today is Monday, which means that the vendors bring their new products in, and everything is at its freshest. Summer has finally arrived. For the past week, I rarely used my blankets at night, and mosquitoes are moving around. I can hear them buzzing loudly as they float around the air, as if they were weightless.
“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Maya Angelou (1928-2014)
"People confuse the source of their happiness. They become temporarily happy when they get a new car, or a new house, or a new marriage. And they think that they are suddenly happy because of this new thing in their life. In reality, they are happy because for a brief moment, they are without desire. But then soon another desire comes along. And the search continues."
Portrait at the tattoo parlor #bansky 🎈
A writer came to me today, to get his fortune told. It was the first time I ever sat down with a writer and spoke to one. Before I lost my sight, I spent most of my time reading about strange and exotic places, far away cities and languages that are so different from mine.
I woke up this morning to the sound of two blackbirds singing. As far as I could tell, they were sitting on one of the pomegranate tree branches and were enjoying their warm morning. The spring warmth had finally entered my garden, even the birds were eager to share these news with everyone.
The sky must’ve been cloudy. I could feel the rain approaching slowly, my bones began to ache the way they always do when storm clouds barge in. There was a warmth around me. As if the wind had mixed a gust of warmness into itself, the wind chimes that hung by the edge of my tiny brick house started playing a melody.
I haven’t previously read many authors who originated from the East, and was sharing her stories from that area. To me, dipping my toes into unfamiliar ponds seemed extraordinary. The only books that I have read and that were concerned about the eastern hemisphere were Fasting, Feasting, the Alchemist (perhaps), the Kite Runner, a Thousand Splendid Suns, the Thief and the Dogs. I have felt the western plot lines of novels run down my spine one too many times, and haven’t really known anything else. The familiarity of westernised literature seemed more inviting, up until now.