i wish i could draw the emotions on my face as i tried and tried, and failed and failed to register what moving from one city to another meant. i wish i could draw the clouds that i saw over fifteen visits to the sky, feeling unfair whenever i was asked to choose between the two lands, as if having to answer whether my it is my mother or my father who loves me more. i wish i could draw the many episodes where the confines of education were broken into discovery and love for things, great and small. i wish I could draw the warmth of the only blanket that turned any room into home for me. i wish i could draw the names, places, animals and things i have lost and found from school to university, including someone i used to be and someone i’d never dreamt i would become.
instead, i moved around maps, the fundamental figures in geography - a subject that was never on my side, and fragments of Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam - standing for the confluence of the two halves of my life, one given and one offered to me. while one city absorbed my creativity, the experiences absorbed by the other breathed life into it.
now, who would've seen that one coming?
instead, i moved around maps, the fundamental figures in geography - a subject that was never on my side, and fragments of Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam - standing for the confluence of the two halves of my life, one given and one offered to me. while one city absorbed my creativity, the experiences absorbed by the other breathed life into it.
now, who would've seen that one coming?
while time gives equal chances to the mind and the heart in all tenses, reassuring them that i am not biased towards one of the two is a struggle that never gets old.
i am not biased towards my heart, but i keep surrendering to its words even when certain choices are in dire need of logic. sometimes, the wisdom of the mind lies withering before my eyes, as i decorate the heart's solutions in pages and conversations.
i am not biased towards my heart, but the heart does a lot of thinking. it takes strides with so many emotions that the mind falls short of emotional intelligence when i am screaming for some sensibility, even as much as a scrape.
i am not biased towards my heart, but i have taken its side over many arguments, joys and despairs. i tell myself that the mind can keep itself fit - it has three different pools to swim in, but the heart is young and fragile - stuck in one chamber and in constant need of smiles and tears to keep its residents company.
i am not biased towards my heart, but i live in it, and wherever it takes me, i follow. doesn't everyone love their home?
here is an interaction between the only biology diagram i could manage to remember the mnemonics to, and Banksy's Girl with Balloon, as a lens to the bittersweet relationship i have with my heart.
just to be clear, i am not biased towards my heart.
i am not biased towards my heart, but i keep surrendering to its words even when certain choices are in dire need of logic. sometimes, the wisdom of the mind lies withering before my eyes, as i decorate the heart's solutions in pages and conversations.
i am not biased towards my heart, but the heart does a lot of thinking. it takes strides with so many emotions that the mind falls short of emotional intelligence when i am screaming for some sensibility, even as much as a scrape.
i am not biased towards my heart, but i have taken its side over many arguments, joys and despairs. i tell myself that the mind can keep itself fit - it has three different pools to swim in, but the heart is young and fragile - stuck in one chamber and in constant need of smiles and tears to keep its residents company.
i am not biased towards my heart, but i live in it, and wherever it takes me, i follow. doesn't everyone love their home?
here is an interaction between the only biology diagram i could manage to remember the mnemonics to, and Banksy's Girl with Balloon, as a lens to the bittersweet relationship i have with my heart.
just to be clear, i am not biased towards my heart.
as a child, i was always drawn to things that were bright and colourful, despite a secret sense of comfort in the dark.
i cannot quite put my finger on the moment when i realised that darkness can be friendly. as i grew older, the bright and the colourful were shades that i would choose to accept, while the dark was quiet and empathetic. discovery and realisation became easier without the lights on. consciousness disappeared without the lights on. the child in me, without a worry in the world, could breathe without the lights on - and yet, i learnt to live with my colours. my mind settled on pillows arranged in a colourful assortment, with an occasional explosion of fluff and the sound of laughter - as if someone had finally come back. my imagination had learnt to live through regularly scheduled programming, with commercials of painting the surroundings with an emotional vision. seconds before the roller coaster gushed down into routine, the blend of colours inside would attract a breeze amidst the everflowing wind.
physics was a dream i left behind in the light, and the electric circuit was one of my favourite concepts, engaging here with a homage to Murakami’s flowers, as they blur the lines between happiness and fear, darkness and light.
i cannot quite put my finger on the moment when i realised that darkness can be friendly. as i grew older, the bright and the colourful were shades that i would choose to accept, while the dark was quiet and empathetic. discovery and realisation became easier without the lights on. consciousness disappeared without the lights on. the child in me, without a worry in the world, could breathe without the lights on - and yet, i learnt to live with my colours. my mind settled on pillows arranged in a colourful assortment, with an occasional explosion of fluff and the sound of laughter - as if someone had finally come back. my imagination had learnt to live through regularly scheduled programming, with commercials of painting the surroundings with an emotional vision. seconds before the roller coaster gushed down into routine, the blend of colours inside would attract a breeze amidst the everflowing wind.
physics was a dream i left behind in the light, and the electric circuit was one of my favourite concepts, engaging here with a homage to Murakami’s flowers, as they blur the lines between happiness and fear, darkness and light.
like every other, beauty is a construct that emerges from the roots of the soul. on its search, one part of the soul absorbs itself in glitter, while the other, in sand. neither of them wins.
like every other, beauty is a construct that changes its posture on occasions. with time, it has changed them more to the expectations of the outside, and less to the comfort of the inside.
like every other, beauty is a construct that strengthens like a friend and breaks like a foe. it forces out the uncertainty, and takes in the ugly truth - for the sake of last chances and the little bit of light left within.
like every other, beauty is a construct that is indecisive between wings and feet. while the wings make the impossible true, it is never far from missing its feet - to run, to breathe, to shred the weight on it shoulders and build another castle against the waves.
like every other, beauty is a construct that i doubt i will ever fully understand.
i present to you, eighth grade's layers of the soil binding Sandro Botticelli's The Birth of Venus - a beauty above all, a beauty like no other.
like every other, beauty is a construct that changes its posture on occasions. with time, it has changed them more to the expectations of the outside, and less to the comfort of the inside.
like every other, beauty is a construct that strengthens like a friend and breaks like a foe. it forces out the uncertainty, and takes in the ugly truth - for the sake of last chances and the little bit of light left within.
like every other, beauty is a construct that is indecisive between wings and feet. while the wings make the impossible true, it is never far from missing its feet - to run, to breathe, to shred the weight on it shoulders and build another castle against the waves.
like every other, beauty is a construct that i doubt i will ever fully understand.
i present to you, eighth grade's layers of the soil binding Sandro Botticelli's The Birth of Venus - a beauty above all, a beauty like no other.
it is fascinating how our senses guide us through the maze that the world is. senses walk us to an end of tricking our mind into believing things that may not even be real, or proven, after a certain point of time.
in the first right, i see a photograph, only to be transported to the colourful scenery of the day it was taken on.
in the second left, i hear the sounds that engaged me as the photograph was taken.
walking straight ahead, i smell things, natural and unnatural, as they unite to be a part of capturing the moment.
taking the next left, i taste the snow that fell right before the moment somersaulted into a frozen memory.
the final right completes an unforgettable experience, making me feel the breeze that was blowing between me and the camera, only to lead me back to a photograph - enough to realize that i was there. i was part of one of the innumerable moments that occurred at the exact same moment, but i was not actually reliving it. i was only sitting with a photograph in my hand that happened to be taken in it.
this is not a pair of lungs breathing through a pipe. however, observing this biology diagram of human lungs, going hand in hand with Rene Magritte's The Treachery of Images, is supposed to make you believe that it is.
has it tricked you yet?
in the first right, i see a photograph, only to be transported to the colourful scenery of the day it was taken on.
in the second left, i hear the sounds that engaged me as the photograph was taken.
walking straight ahead, i smell things, natural and unnatural, as they unite to be a part of capturing the moment.
taking the next left, i taste the snow that fell right before the moment somersaulted into a frozen memory.
the final right completes an unforgettable experience, making me feel the breeze that was blowing between me and the camera, only to lead me back to a photograph - enough to realize that i was there. i was part of one of the innumerable moments that occurred at the exact same moment, but i was not actually reliving it. i was only sitting with a photograph in my hand that happened to be taken in it.
this is not a pair of lungs breathing through a pipe. however, observing this biology diagram of human lungs, going hand in hand with Rene Magritte's The Treachery of Images, is supposed to make you believe that it is.
has it tricked you yet?
love is just a four letter word.
one fine day, once upon a time, one day at a time, one last time - it swings on a plane of changing seasons in the heart. it begins with looking at the dearly beloved as the perfect missing piece to the not so complete puzzle, and goes on till longing becomes a habit that sits beside you, looking outside the puzzled window, facing a completed time.
from two to one and one to two, you hold a hand to stick by you for the rest of the picnic, because playing with the others never seemed more foreign. from two on the first seat to one behind the other for another surprise, you keep letting the clock tick without a battery, while you charge to the songs of their voice. from one end to two, the distance never really ends until playing home and seeing the world together is the only way.
threads of three are braided into years of humour and fluttering thoughts that make your pillow softer and your eyes brighter. the first thread is you, the second thread is me and the third thread is a book of codes that we can only decipher together.
love is just four letters, one syllable and the two pages of my secret diary that haven’t changed.
Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss is a pleasant depiction of love, which i choose to swing by until physics fails to explain how the oscillations aged before my spirit.
one fine day, once upon a time, one day at a time, one last time - it swings on a plane of changing seasons in the heart. it begins with looking at the dearly beloved as the perfect missing piece to the not so complete puzzle, and goes on till longing becomes a habit that sits beside you, looking outside the puzzled window, facing a completed time.
from two to one and one to two, you hold a hand to stick by you for the rest of the picnic, because playing with the others never seemed more foreign. from two on the first seat to one behind the other for another surprise, you keep letting the clock tick without a battery, while you charge to the songs of their voice. from one end to two, the distance never really ends until playing home and seeing the world together is the only way.
threads of three are braided into years of humour and fluttering thoughts that make your pillow softer and your eyes brighter. the first thread is you, the second thread is me and the third thread is a book of codes that we can only decipher together.
love is just four letters, one syllable and the two pages of my secret diary that haven’t changed.
Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss is a pleasant depiction of love, which i choose to swing by until physics fails to explain how the oscillations aged before my spirit.
