Wednesday, 12 December 2012

I Am From

I am from red clay pots sitting along hard grey roads,
warm sunshine and heavy raindrops tapping tills
lone animals treading quietly,  the swish of cattle’s tails mingling with the cries of the market.
Fiery dragons breathing columns of fire,
jaded pedants bearing rabbit pads.
Of crystal flutes chiming along to the deep rumble of the Tabla.

I am from Paramore and Taylor Swift
P!nk, Ed Sheeran and Three Days Grace.
I am from Jasport backpacks and shiny silver Macbooks,
of pretty dresses and black converse.
I am from spiced air and soaring skyscrapers
Embassy standing proud as hooves soar above striped oxers.

I am from blue china plates, dove wings fluttering across glass as tall flutes tinkle merrily.
The loud bark of a Yorkshire Terrier, golden brown and grey merging with light.
Gleaming stainless steel food bowls and knotted paw-printed leashes.
From opinions and beliefs, colours brightening and molding across a sheet of canvas.
Music notes black and fleeting yet lingering in the soul
fingers strumming guitar strings and pressing frets lovingly.

I am from crisp white paper stained with musings of my mind
of ink shaping ideas, of characters and places skirting through my dreams.
Paint spattered canvas, ink stained fingertips, charcoal covered palms.
Fine paintbrushes splashing life into grey and pencils sketching endlessly.
I am from battered Beanie Babies and scattered rainbows of rubber bands
messy buns and loose waves tickling the cloth on my shoulder.
Shifting dreams and warm, steady love from my mother’s open arms,
of my father’s never ending support and comforting, confident voice.

I am from the pale moonlight dappling lakes,
mysterious, tender silver setting the murky water aglow yet leaving some hidden.
Fluffy orange dipped clouds drifting slowly along the setting sun,
bursting with memories and full of glimmering hope tinged with acceptance.
I am from the trees, the flowers and the wind;
from the night sky and the breathtaking dawn.
I am from Cassopeia as she glows duskily against the stars,
from the abstract, storytellers of the universe.
Faint stardust spinning through space,
soft red powder forming my features in the timeless void of memories.

Tuesday, 4 December 2012


I love homemade cookies.

They're warm, soft and moist with chocolate chips, melting and good at the tip of your tongue. They taste wonderful not only because it is full of lovely chocolate-y goodness but also because home baked cookies are full of love. 

Love from the baker shaping the round dessert, love from the person consuming the lovely food, love from the atmosphere around it. When you bake cookies it is not a process but like meeting an old friend; you do not merely follow the instructions but make it your own. 

Making the cookiedough; nibbling chunks of semisweet, chocolate bits in a snowy white plain. Shaping the circles, placing them onto a powdered mat with the careful cautiousness of holding a newborn baby. Baking a cookie is a like an experience itself with new and old.

In a way baking a cookie is a little like life. The first time you bake one you will make small mistakes whether in the temperature of the heat or the amount of butter you've added. But you learn as you bake them again just as in life you learn from your mistakes. You can experiment with your shapes and ingredients just as you can experiment with different situations and styles in life. You can rush forward carelessly while baking a cookie or tread with slow caution just as you can approach life.

Cookies represent life and life is in a cookie.