Sunday, 28 April 2013

in that moment she was f r e e




I think they're many themes that recur in stories; love, fear, guilt, death. Those themes captivate us but are also found in almost every location, every place. I think these themes just envelop every genre of a book, they just perserve and endure throughout because they're so relatable and wonderful to read. They are powerful and emotional and just one of those things that make you stare breathlessly, savoring every second.



I think these themes say a lot about us as a race. Humanity is so incredibly diverse and widespread but equally terrible and great as we are we all experience certain things that bind us together. These themes show us this; we all love and fear–make connections and friendships. We live fully and die painfully, we grieve and we weep but we also smile with the strength of family. These themes tell us that humanity is something universal and strong but also fragile with a variety of interests and emotions; that we are intense but weak and tend to fall over our two feet.

We return to these themes because we can relate to them; they spark something into us, they open up pieces of ourselves and make us smile with aching hearts but healing minds. These themes reveal things and make us think about previous memories and past moments. I wonder how our mind interprets these themes though, wonder what would happen if we replaced them or shut them out. Are these vital to us or have we become so accustomed to them that we have made them a part of our lives?

I want to explore these themes further, the less explored ones and more unique ones that rarely surface in the world of ink and soft pages. I want to further see the psychology of these themes and thoughts, the ideas and concepts.

xx tanisha (:

Saturday, 27 April 2013

siblings

Siblings.

I've never had one but I've always wanted one. Being an only child has it's perks; no fights, no sharing, no annoying little child trailing after you. But it's not always that way. Sometimes, being an only child is lonely. There's no one to fight with, no one who will always be there for you and no one really trailing after you. The feeling you get when you see two siblings together is one of longing and loss but also a tinge of gratefulness.

My dog helped me through the more lonely years of fourth grade but I've also been blessed with friends who are like my sisters and cousins who resemble siblings too. But they aren't always there like a brother or sister and sometimes Skype calls aren't exactly the epitome of otherworldly connections.

But I also wonder, is the whole sibling thing exalted and uplifted? Is it really that great? Will it really change your entire life yet alone existence? It sounds kind of unrealistic and fabricated but who knows.

Then again everything happens for a reason and I've met people who are like my siblings. Maybe they'll be the aunts and uncles of my future children (if I'll have any) and the other things.

x
tanisha (:

Tuesday, 5 March 2013

i'm fine

From the millions of posts on tumblr, instagram, facebook, twitter, you name it you will always find several hundred posts displaying a person holding up a card with about fifty emotions on it ranging from sad to lonely to angry to depressed. All the emotions are scribbled out or replaced by a large 'I'm Fine'.

Those posts–though repeated, reblogged and shared to death–represent an accurate revelation. We hide our emotions behind a smile, a mask or the phrase consisting of two words 'I'm fine'. We might feel lonely or depressed or angry but instead of releasing our emotions and exposing them to the world we let the shadows engulf them. They slowly eat away at us while we release them on something else; confess them in between pages or by clicking the reblog button on a few anger appeasing posts. 

But why do we hide our emotions? Why do we make it seem like everything's vanilla and rainbows when it's actually storm clouds and tear ducts. Is it the fear of being judged? The awful, hopeless feeling that nobody will understand? Is it in those communities, there is safety in the knowledge these other people go through the same emotions too? 


Sunday, 24 February 2013

The Book Thief

The character I'm going to blog about is Death.

I learned that Death is not an evil figure who lusts for blood as a person needs water but is a slightly sad  one who goes about his business simply. He is not a character of a one track mindset of evil but can be happy, sociable and congenial shown by the quote "I most definitely can be cheerful. Amiable. Agreeable. Affable. The three A's."

However, he is not nice shown by the his askance of "just don't ask me to be nice." He isn't an anything-goes, you can walk all over me person. He is hardened from his job but also finds the routine of it depressing but finds relief and relaxation in colors. Colors are his holiday, his redemption. "I vacation in increments. In colors."

I also have learned he is an observant person. He has developed a gratefulness for the colors around him, their shades and fragments as how he mentions "A single hour can consist of thousands of colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues" he notices things.

The setting/mood of the scene is slightly dreary, whimsical and a little cynical with brief splatters of emotion in the form of color. 

peace ☯

Peace, to me,  is usually futile, stretched out during long periods of time. Sometimes it is calm and steady; a relentless and unbroken sheet of pale snow. However–like snow–it can be dissolved to mush and murky grey as easily as you cut a thread.

It is a fragile spiderweb, strung together by many layers and sparkling in the sunlight; a beacon, an idol of beauty and awe. But it can be broken with a single swipe, torn into shattered layers and limp strands. It is a china vase painted with beautiful designs and patterned with glowing blues, lined with soft barely visible creams; in the rays of dawn and the moonlight illuminating water's surface. 

Peace is awed over, inspired by, romanticized and desired. 

It is a tool used by strategic world leaders but also present in everyday life be it a pause between the battle of two birds or a temporary truce between different groups at school. A pact between countries; a law. Peace flows through everything, fragile but strengthened by the belief placed in it.

An enigma, a oxymoron. 

Monday, 21 January 2013

p o ems

These are my poems for English. I'm posting them a little late but yeah.




 The Queen of Snow
The edge of her dress skims across the mountaintops
Light and airy as my mother’s song curling through the air
Sweet pink candy in the shopkeeper’s hand
Icy blue of my blueberry cone so cold and sweet
Angelic white blending in with polar bear’s head
Flickering purples view her kingdom gently, a soft radiance seeping from her form
She is there, there, always there.
Her snowy curtain resting against one shoulder, tips a dewy pink
Queen Aurora, the majestic beauty of our snowy wonderland.

Gorgeous and kind she is the elegant lady conferring with her acquaintances,
Gentle and all seeing she is like the satiny breath of the after storm perfume,
She observes with a soft gaze with nimble fingers playing her harp of the fox fur chimes.
Lady Borealis her subjects cry with glee, calls echoing across the kingdom.
But she also resembles my mother so poised, supportive and strong
Worry glitters in her eyes, a mist of tears cloud her eyes as a weary child falls at her feet,
Loving arms surrounding the body, protecting from the demons of the night.
She is the guardian, the snow lady, my mother, the queen of the lands she graces the skies with
The light guiding the way, setting dark mountaintops aglow
Aurora with her velvety hair and eyes so bright
Won’t you light the way tonight?
 


Whisper, whisper, whisper goes the river as I swing my feet in the air
The sun shines brightly but my mood an inky night
The cotton of my sweater is uncomfortable
The dark denim clinging to my skin is too rough
The mahogany of my mother’s hair jars my eyes
My temper sours with the lime green sweet on my tongue
Everything is wrong today.
My toes should not be treading damp strands of after storm grass; fingertips touching the end of a frayed sleeve
Legs holding a petite body upright in a gaping valley far from the butterfly gardens with familiar faces.
One arm wraps around my leg, clinging like a sloth to its tree
My eyes face down viewing the warm puppy cousin with his large eyes
A scowl meanders my lips, following the light pawsteps on the grass
A bark pierces the air, brown paws scampering away; a shout as my feet pound after;
a pad points to a fluttering wing the wind, oranges and pinks meshing into a beautiful sea of colours.
The warm brown of my baby cousin’s eyes outlining the two skittering legs
She flutters gently in the air at the canine’s bark, waving to and fro to the sunlight
And then she goes, carried by the wind’s nurturing arms
Warm orange merging with soft pinks, beauty melding with grace.
My eyes follow the shifting colors in the wind
I see a beautiful green valley soft flowers singing in the breeze,
I see a soaring azure sky, a cluster of iridescent sapphires
I see weeping willow trees crying tears of mingled joy and sadness
The colours sharpening and brightening
She flutters away, the faerie of enlightenment
Bringing revelations to the ones in the dark.

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.



Thursday, 17 January 2013

discount shops

I love discount shops. They're like large spaces filled with bits and pieces of people's lives and forgotten fragments of the past–from nail polish to faded Mario plushies they have everything once valued and once loved by someone.

I recently found a really amazing discount shop in Plaza Singapura which was massive and had these sparkling glass displays with different things inside them; a plushie showcase, O.P.I nail polish for eight dollars, trading cards, video games, sweaters, panda clocks and watches, accessories and many other little things. I found some really amazing bargains there–especially the nail polish which was a mere $8 compared to the usual $20 price. It was in amazing colours; deep blues tinged with shadowy purples, light greens, glimmery silvers with the slightest touch of turquoise and dusky, ripe reds.

Another thing I really love about discount shops is the little silver keys used to unlock those sparkling showcases filled with forgotten memories and once used items. They cluster tightly, glowing like moonlight in the darkness; the only way to free the inhabitants from their shining mirror-panelled prison.

I think I'll go back again sometimes.

tanisha x (:

Monday, 14 January 2013

The Delhi Gang-rape News Story

In Delhi a women and her boyfriend boarded a private bus after watching a movie. The six men on the bus as well as the driver, stopped it and threw her male companion outside. They then raped her repeatedly, abused her and tried to run her over. After the terrible ordeal, they left her bleeding profusely with severe injuries on the street. She was sent to a hospital with brain injuries and was the victim of a heart attack. She died in a hospital in Singapore; her organs shutting down. Her brutal rape and murder sparked riots, protests and rage for this helpless victim in such a horrible situation. Many are still protesting for rape laws, death penalty and holding candlelight vigils for rape victims. More rapes continue to be committed after this awful incident.

I feel the facts in this article are that "six men boarded the bus" and her last words "I want to see those men burnt alive" among some others like the injuries sustained the fact they flew her out to Singapore and how the male companion was the only witness. However some things that might have been made up are where she died as in some articles they said her organs were shutting down in India yet in others they did not; the details of her death got very murky and muddled up towards the end. Also another thing which might have been exaggerated is when the witness said the six men were lying in wait for them. Possibly that may be true; but it might've been six men who were merely drunk while inhabiting the bus and the fate which was inflicted on the victim may have happened to any unfortunate girl.

Some of the things that differed in the articles were that in one page the article had subheadings and a slideshow of pictures with captions underneath displaying the people affected by the gang rape and otherwise. It was a more professional website while in another it was shorter, less organized and detailed. It also looked and the writing style was less professional and informative. Another article had many pictures and a nice layout; the writing style was more like putting the facts out there rather than connecting with it.