tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16725956448986661022024-03-05T13:15:39.661+02:00pictor quod scriptorthe writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-29123901382347649722011-05-04T20:08:00.000+02:002011-05-04T20:08:04.236+02:00the question<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://taniakuhl.wordpress.com/2011/01/19/may-peace-prevail-on-earth/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxdERWbA7NWcJr5bNHg1AlR3D6g6Zxb40qZEsGS2-oOFdtL2_4sXdOwrl4IpplWWZQJ6V6mBpY-ktQRuH9AysSYY-Fldd6_GL25nDT2O8OHpeoTFyh8lXAmR1miR7K6Fs0FJoUGR90B44/s400/191.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">oneday</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">will we look back?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">when all the blood has been shed</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">and the widows have ceased weeping</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">and no mother holds vigil for a son far from home</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">will we see, still</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">the sides we blindly picked</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">separated by barriers our hands built</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">following leaders our voices chose</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">will we regret?</div><br />
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</div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-26192759519725432132011-03-23T20:14:00.004+02:002011-03-23T20:23:36.911+02:00the forgotten<a href="http://taniakuhl.wordpress.com/"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 278px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1plaMeawIBcqSVHQapJO-815CU5OflHWN9vQ7SpBIGGKDua6T4LE5vm0VFhReMVZZZuLJ8Kz0_u8Q_vx3f59-1aE780q-Q9R5nVHaaux8APt7htlfHxYGlhtBHK4KugTx8xDeuFM1LCc/s400/23tania.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587340513729431282" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>and all she had left </div><div>was the residue </div><div>of his lingering </div><div>fingertips. </div><div>lost </div><div>inside a memory </div><div>of a far-away dream </div><div>she thinks </div><div>she once-upon-a-time </div><div>maybe </div><div>had.</div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-52148685577106930832011-03-14T21:03:00.000+02:002011-03-14T21:03:20.148+02:00unscripted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://taniakuhl.wordpress.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_Q4yAZXeipfs3T58EccpjK-MvH66HvD9HLRPgBpJWDk3w4OBCF-ruFUCQ_bR05tXicTzQHwp5KvX0d9VGdnJOnFhIOJ0rBBFr_dkdF9xFIZYwOFev4HLkZk8X-zMNgcoSKwPtJPz5io/s320/13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">when you know</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">how long </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">there is to go</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">it's that much easier</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">to sit through</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">the wait.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-29167192201163482382011-02-28T10:06:00.003+02:002011-02-28T10:10:34.970+02:00truths in sans serif<a href="http://toobaa.wordpress.com/"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA7ljlDSxl6oS2r6G3iiZHjtogf22Suy7R7xHa9wTN8uNG72EmyJpGXGdwRLSfcpJTfSs5f7gWzqEp0cwkNxB6wgbjKsnKFk-g5Hfav-aEFj4sow01BMFYQ2zXudUQ9GxlKxd3EDqR0CE/s400/zara.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578648864679976322" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>instead she said:</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>i used to </div><div>be a </div><div>writer</div><div><br /></div><div>before </div><div>i was one.</div><div><br /></div><div>and now that i </div><div>am </div><div>one</div><div><br /></div><div>i'm not."</div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-27010647490561522232011-02-22T14:32:00.000+02:002011-02-22T14:32:10.195+02:00redemption<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://taniakuhl.wordpress.com/"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgca-ObsHOxrUk0Ghas4pVSv6S3lAr6Zi2BtgcssLb3vOH_1hoDI5ZUtgk5oK3LVWJvjRbi4ITqwwAKqDQDGZoK5kHoE90wcROm2vOysN8sqM-X1bpp_KqoTW1YFcieq9UPvTLvqXwgYrY/s400/16.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And when, at last, she stood there in front of him, it seemed her light would fill his world and banish the Dark he'd known so long. Pierce his weary heart, and allow him to feel. But still he resisted, resolute, not daring yet to dream.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I will not be good for you," he said.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"No," she replied, and held out her hand. "But maybe I will be good for you."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-44230173169106030122011-01-31T20:09:00.006+02:002011-01-31T22:00:26.780+02:00the phoenix<a href="http://theartistandthewriter.blogspot.com/p/thousand-words.html"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYXGT7aPm-seWWxBX3rCtlbtdnftTRhmJ0Zhr1KNtgNN2ry7iYy_M_FlXx-VaLUG3VmExJaZ6krnIxAirWBHoNlE438quA35V5WrpUjxam5qUIUSbpLK1yVAcawCVGkYYXN5oy9nyAno/s400/em.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568414043219365410" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>i wonder if you knew.</div><div><br /></div><div>about</div><div>the </div><div>revolution </div><div>in your bone-shards</div><div><br /></div><div>the freedom. from your empty veins </div><div>the hope. etched below your skin</div><div><br /></div><div>the future </div><div>beyond your feet.</div><div><br /></div><div>i wonder if </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>(and hope that) </i></span></div><div>when your world went up in flames </div><div>you knew</div><div><br /></div><div>that yours </div><div>was not </div><div>the kind of dust that </div><div>settles.</div><div><br /></div><div>but ember-seeds </div><div>from which this tree of new life </div><div>would spring.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>[*remembering <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohamed_Bouazizi">him</a>]</i></span></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-75223597637924345742011-01-24T17:31:00.000+02:002011-01-24T17:31:16.164+02:00the dance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://taniakuhl.wordpress.com/"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwimgieG1CCi9Gfi8nS3ib_BoJM-bti_UpHbCSFNQLAk4UnZLxkZPKqA7lwBcbof-TIi9T6NZ6SFIXD5xpvgpcqkUuP5J_VK1PpG7-4YAaMAwJUwEuQefBOc2RMjMLMgpjpZYQ8L6cZlU/s320/18.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">and you knew</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">if we paused for a moment</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i'd feel it</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">your steady beat</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>(heart)beat</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-73741416777820064202011-01-15T00:23:00.000+02:002011-01-15T00:23:12.629+02:00the fairytale<div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="http://taniakuhl.wordpress.com/"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR40s19Yrk-rlDbVf3E154X3sr4kyfP9NjlkZ5OLNQbm1Xg9CAC72xLY7RTiJmNoE73QKxCK8WugMGliQp-nc-DfghiebDoUuC6EXb9LdJTl0XVI8UPydXfb67ACxqQ5si-oMRca8HcAY/s320/9.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">it</div><div style="text-align: left;">was</div><div style="text-align: left;">different,</div><div style="text-align: left;">somehow</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">yet</div><div style="text-align: left;">all that had changed</div><div style="text-align: left;">was that</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">she</div><div style="text-align: left;">believed.</div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-40453592030622520532010-12-31T17:55:00.002+02:002010-12-31T18:01:37.002+02:00the promise<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFoYNz4feJiCXn6HIxoXZBLXVamw8nimArWyU-TCgOFM5cgkggpN_kxqHDd-U42Ev-QYChBGMrkQpOL4s9gwG5Xv0-_czow0no4jP54lyMdj6ZEru4gPrX1IVmWcwNAYMIa5_i4bb9oSs/s1600/maja1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 334px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFoYNz4feJiCXn6HIxoXZBLXVamw8nimArWyU-TCgOFM5cgkggpN_kxqHDd-U42Ev-QYChBGMrkQpOL4s9gwG5Xv0-_czow0no4jP54lyMdj6ZEru4gPrX1IVmWcwNAYMIa5_i4bb9oSs/s400/maja1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556875955295881490" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>remember </div><div>last year </div><div>this time </div><div>when all of that mattered?</div><div><br /></div><div>think about </div><div>next year </div><div>this time </div><div><br /></div><div>when none of this will.</div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-25441638798780092642010-12-25T17:06:00.002+02:002010-12-25T17:13:14.327+02:00keepsakes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUkdzerpcjv4_dl0riNusjMtbyocvHGrWHrgBzQf98jtrq3xI3f44oy9R2irDs08rdNFZzk7_rJLE-sYCC5AD4RIRzlX6ux3wR80IZiRHi2d3aGofOcQ43Iiio9DCD8ESe28UUCqGWIs/s1600/aw.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUkdzerpcjv4_dl0riNusjMtbyocvHGrWHrgBzQf98jtrq3xI3f44oy9R2irDs08rdNFZzk7_rJLE-sYCC5AD4RIRzlX6ux3wR80IZiRHi2d3aGofOcQ43Iiio9DCD8ESe28UUCqGWIs/s400/aw.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554637183634044930" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>the song was now tied to her </div><div>to the thought. the memory. the sound. the feel. </div><div>the scent. the </div><div>touch </div><div>of</div><div>her.</div><div><br /></div><div>and after today. after what came next </div><div>he knew he'd never be able to listen to it. </div><div>not even the chords of it</div><div>ever</div><div>again.</div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-34796641620821104932010-12-06T00:32:00.008+02:002010-12-09T00:15:20.481+02:00the apology<div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"></div><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><a href="http://twitter.com/shubnumkhan"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KyJC3FhJEpPR6LoCQ5H3So_FGQxV-XQL21EPeiln7FO904HW2MyX6PgAnvOiDykYH7CnP6uijvH2ui2hEVWeswsz2s2WJbuUlaY65PjMlA-0vHXnlVQMGX9ozCMAXoZG1BrBeMwHWxA/s400/DSC05466.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You knew it was selfish when you said the words</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">and you felt them drop</div><div style="text-align: left;">echoing hollowly </div><div style="text-align: left;">in the chasm you'd created</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"> And for all that you expected the emptiness, </span></i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">there were still mascara stains on your pillow that night</span>.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But you'd say those words again if you had to.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Because sometimes, it's not about dealing.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's about finding a way to let go.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-26886843914024545892010-11-30T12:44:00.004+02:002010-11-30T12:59:43.499+02:00of tao and te<a href="http://theartistandthewriter.blogspot.com/p/thousand-words.html"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOxcSefsvE-J7An1O9iIaEKfNEksmuXkltTqiwU2oyRgF8HDt9qTbQkWBd6ZJTwb0zzsNOvdirdzdYIiN582a47s8SDxi5rgsbm3It-AdVWzkLYqSKXIlmTN3OYJj4v39jEKMk64Ql7Q/s400/pete+with+nev2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545292736745216146" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>they wandered along </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">winding corridors. hidden passageways </span></div><div>losing their footing </div><div>stumbling...</div><div><br /></div><div>until they stopped </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>waited </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>listened</div><div><br /></div><div>let their eyes see beyond the darkness in front of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>and then they knew </div><div>that even though they were lost, </div><div>they were <i>somewhere.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>and in that, they found they were free.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-69106231677124282982010-11-22T18:37:00.006+02:002010-11-22T19:29:17.811+02:00signal failure<a href="http://theartistandthewriter.blogspot.com/p/thousand-words.html"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 236px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaFZCKs9wtdtbTYCynsIOAq6EhqxHXn3SclH_Y_O5QWDdlLJovATSlNzUmYMnYkTDNnRyOCumuxjUUBaos1xYSEvEI2IoxgcjbH4OjtrFZDoNoSOvphqR3chAz-TklXJsLcgKZ88AxIE/s400/pete+with+nev.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542414546670308802" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>she tried. again. to find the words </div><div><br /></div><div>but they were lost. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">like she was back then </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">like they were to each other now </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>and the clocks ticked on </div><div>and the time passed by </div><div>until suddenly it was too late. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">she knew the words wouldn't fit </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">even if she happened to find them </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>she knew he couldn't hear her from a world and a lifetime away</div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-57701299548826009002010-11-15T10:58:00.003+02:002010-12-09T01:07:52.786+02:00the regret<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="http://theartistandthewriter.blogspot.com/p/thousand-words.html"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5F6gRrkkuO8evU3CFBBjx0Pwyoj63NQRyDE2Gi3ZJATL7B80Zh4mqk2PioQ1P6lJe44jUMbZTLRyu9sBbGb2kAw4ILNx5F0828wG1xEvDWxKRFbKrLo1H9w_kdTFmvwO1aFeyZj45DPs/s400/39221_452397880714_549720714_6670501_4875012dvgdg_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And now you're hiding.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">eyes screwed up tight, tighter</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">fingers jammed into your ear</span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">s</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>leave me alone!</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But the memories won't be blinded, and you can't deafen the screaming when it's coming from within. And you know you made these choices, you chose the path that lead you here.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And you can't run away from yourself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-54861379188457110272010-11-10T12:49:00.004+02:002010-11-10T13:02:48.385+02:00how flowers bloom from pavement cracks<a href="http://www.saaleha.com"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqT9w65zUyoH2JdLkFllcyBngaPF0OuVlstIqA-X-3OyCF5miZrduykPUcevN1_sandxj4GTHoRh6Te5rs1qdrLl3cJDQpDv-OccMCkAFq1E3Z7eVLggbGXLnmGgzj4oYZI7ziQO4l3cw/s400/flower.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537871651482996930" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>these words may break in </div><div>places. they may </div><div><br /></div><div>jar and </div><div>stop.</div><div><br /></div><div>they may not always make much sense. </div><div>but they always mean something </div><div><br /></div><div>they mean a depth. an honesty. a resilience. a </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>hope.</div><div><br /></div><div>they mean that even when there is </div><div>nothing </div><div>left</div><div><br /></div><div>there is still the penchant to </div><div>pick up this pen and</div><div>say so.</div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-83383256019774262902010-11-01T12:48:00.001+02:002010-11-01T16:18:28.522+02:00when the storyline began<span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://theartistandthewriter.blogspot.com/p/thousand-words.html"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLEC7QeNDuQGwFXpbkInNKvntCbrw3EYBunH8Ma5x_w2iWeAIqF2ydq5NxS6n0S6z9IDW5HG4WXbxYBe4GDEVDfluLgeKMcBBZIYe-O7QoWi7MqSOfSJsga5sB9we64gzbx5owzFXbUS4/s320/DSC01105.JPG" width="240" /></a></span><div><br /></div><div>sometimes, my memory forgets</div><div><br /></div><div>the lines between the years blur</div><div>and there we were (are?) </div><div>a hazy snap-shot</div><div>hand-in-hand</div><div><br /></div><div>my pigtails and your mary-janes</div><div>leonardo and april</div><div>sunburnt on the beach while the fire keeps you warm</div><div>and the same song playing in both our backgrounds</div><div><br /></div><div>my memory forgets</div><div>that ours is a new chapter, only recently begun</div><div>and your name should not appear on those early pages</div><div><br /></div><div>and yet, there it is</div><div>in a different book</div><div>in a different place</div><div>in a different time</div><div><br /></div><div>but somehow</div><div>it's the same story.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLEC7QeNDuQGwFXpbkInNKvntCbrw3EYBunH8Ma5x_w2iWeAIqF2ydq5NxS6n0S6z9IDW5HG4WXbxYBe4GDEVDfluLgeKMcBBZIYe-O7QoWi7MqSOfSJsga5sB9we64gzbx5owzFXbUS4/s1600/DSC01105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSHlRknbPc7j91TjUXsqbx3kyVC-rLNjiX2LNsDgxqz5DvGGbgdRdBi6orbDWEuP5wH6tqTUdOsa99oYLaC8GvYLFf-lk766H-pqeatXwqDyM9Q9tibmsu5uE5pgYjEHxkOdFVeiZ5gs/s1600/DSC01105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></a></div></div></div></div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-29230632453216475672010-10-25T18:27:00.000+02:002010-10-25T18:27:00.402+02:00when learning to fly<a href="http://twitter.com/shubnumkhan"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL04gZx_9DKXYiqw-KfR_YoQzqzD1gRLR1zu6aB4sSLtfjPv5S_KmWhP2fuGVUcTIypKeLQS8cCVxnG9OhngaImaA1PqS4lDwc6E84hjSOC_nzp3a5tmatnDAa1XVAViaXCwxTJH-FXQo/s400/sk2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531997550898838706" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>fall.</div><div><br /></div><div>but not like you have before.</div><div>fall to find your depth,</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>to reach the flow that is stronger than you,</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>that is the true purpose of You.</div><div><br /></div><div>be like the rain </div><div>falling downwards </div><div><br /></div><div>soaring towards the sea</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-47552810565091035912010-10-21T23:06:00.000+02:002012-10-02T22:19:22.035+02:00the ball and chain<div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgII2Km2nv7gICtxfRxc22EePMiriQ8zlfPLLykabBXIH9SUTcTvbGDdeYd39d4dVeZoqW_Xt9LgQjHPuWOAe8_MEKybx6c_-_2cSIACzQMWWId_6wqGE0dvhvrm3CRXH7n4LfC_t4zF24/s1600/36910_439075135714_549720714_6309637_704992_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgII2Km2nv7gICtxfRxc22EePMiriQ8zlfPLLykabBXIH9SUTcTvbGDdeYd39d4dVeZoqW_Xt9LgQjHPuWOAe8_MEKybx6c_-_2cSIACzQMWWId_6wqGE0dvhvrm3CRXH7n4LfC_t4zF24/s400/36910_439075135714_549720714_6309637_704992_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And there were choices to make.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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There was the blissful carefreeness of it all,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
the weight of no world but my own,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
burdened by no day-to-day pattern,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
bound to no wretched routine.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">But it was empty.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">And the emptiness had to be filled.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And so I chose this shackled path.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Better bound,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
than alone.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebaeINXDqHT5BVNjjoJp2_u2mzzZNQMKdPe5wTQ1cSzB5XAKmJSJZ7XslCpZ82KN9HJCW6IxVj-M1hOOGPEgia3ZmWH0jDEsf2TlXCP86DZE2c5qiUdf4kouXGvL3fGXQNsI6n-im3dQ/s1600/skyline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebaeINXDqHT5BVNjjoJp2_u2mzzZNQMKdPe5wTQ1cSzB5XAKmJSJZ7XslCpZ82KN9HJCW6IxVj-M1hOOGPEgia3ZmWH0jDEsf2TlXCP86DZE2c5qiUdf4kouXGvL3fGXQNsI6n-im3dQ/s1600/skyline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br />
</a>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-77530655113743706992010-10-11T21:45:00.003+02:002010-10-11T21:58:17.384+02:00the fighting of the dawn<a href="http://twitter.com/shubnumkhan"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjehE9uRBUU2Wa5e6i7Vp3r2MfzrdDdRYuQNCY6qBzdetBGZJ_H5bTP6nSlZoyOqTu4svxAL8_PWv6FiLFTYi2udVH_9hTArGrj5w_jMJz7h8hZVFJUkHkaz8KxDhYu8IF3ZdKMKC9yoBA/s400/sk3.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526877681363944610" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>tomorrow </div><div>this sun will set</div><div>this sky will fade and </div><div>life will use our plans to push us far apart.</div><div><br /></div><div>but for now. for tonight</div><div>can we just sit here </div><div>can we sail together on this ship along De-nial</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-2310360351783018712010-10-05T13:58:00.001+02:002010-10-05T17:03:17.306+02:00the words that aren't good-bye<a href="http://theartistandthewriter.blogspot.com/p/thousand-words.html"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyomPjRIkWUkCsZjilB_6QvjbemvQEF5MMPmpLnlMHqbK-b8-FKCjAp89lkHlKUj9f9TIwBbq1j7hNl99gYJFR5tckp_VHoWtlHknyWYojqk2ZMJOCkWoARnYrLzRArDQa9MZH9iuIjt0/s400/mir2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524577561902599698" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At the parting of the ways</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">we turned</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">paused</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">listened a while</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>fading echoes of</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>the laughter</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>the whispers</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>the tears</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>the promises</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">the moments that brought us to this one.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our paths are different now</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">and where you go I cannot come</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">but here in this moment</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">the lifetime we shared</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">is infinite.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-89674368411297313162010-09-28T15:13:00.003+02:002010-09-28T15:29:24.054+02:00parenthesis<a href="http://theartistandthewriter.blogspot.com/p/thousand-words.html"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 333px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUZffdrgJayTa2EISTsXQHhFjv4k-2tV6yCc_yBHm0VKs61ZdWHmCnPV7Esvyx7c_3jQNTwEQ87BFgOqU3re9Ws-H_eZURNR_5Nfj1xTxncOskCn1Nc-TTU4Os7771a-fjYkdPeOWfPw/s400/Su.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521954146661307714" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>histories aren't made </div><div>in years </div><div>in months </div><div>in days </div><div>in minutes</div><div><br /></div><div>histories aren't even made in moments. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>they're made here</i></div><div> in between the moments</div><div><br /></div><div>in words. unsaid but felt. </div><div>in smiles. subtle but understood.</div><div>in dreams. unexplained but always shared. </div><div><br /></div><div>that's where the histories of us were made </div><div>and that's where, engraved in time, you must know they will stay</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-67755358893056819102010-09-21T14:41:00.000+02:002010-09-21T14:41:00.368+02:00but that was just a dream<a href="http://theartistandthewriter.blogspot.com/p/thousand-words.html"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 249px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA-plL3_G_Ss52CPvXXLoabLHOVOC4pUPy7AfqCV9IqhBsS9p4Z7BCg5vnOr7Ed73-doOleWTc1rdpb91SESBSfPAGL7HCalRGG5hfcyxJy6WbKF6LnVo0uQMXR6yAAiwfOWkLGVvsF7Q/s400/mp.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519316693796772914" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>and we didn't say a word </div><div>and we didn't do a thing </div><div>and the world just swarmed around us </div><div>becoming a distant, hazy blur </div><div><br /></div><div>and your thoughts echoed in my ears </div><div>and your fingers traced along my skin </div><div>and your arms were there to steady me </div><div><br /></div><div>even before i knew i would fall</div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-81949618685614426962010-09-15T22:35:00.000+02:002010-09-15T22:35:23.282+02:00the insignificance<img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGEDOOF7bzagEAi6M11ilMkWc_186sOKFbrUyxAo41ukB2F7Mq_K6ACrqyX40Qqmi0J6Ua3Ee0rOVZ-qnwMkXgCDFkhvIGLxjwNd7Ly-yeV2ESeF6kusX09xHn-X5WmmwLUXUrkPxM0ZQ/s320/37651_451508705714_549720714_6643316_5722459_n.jpg" width="320" /><div><br />
</div><div>"But I'm afraid," she whispered.</div><div>"They did not care when I was here; they will not notice when I'm gone."</div><div><br />
</div><div>So you stayed a while, and fought the Loneliness.</div><div>And when you left, she was no bigger than before. But the shadows she stepped out of had diminished.</div><div><br />
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</div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-13534304394963438352010-09-02T21:24:00.003+02:002010-09-02T21:32:32.754+02:00moving forward is the only way back<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/29961924@N05/"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbI-KRsSqrVFJ6SF-Rib7PCt1no-Ivi198GxilhEUBei-GR_8dxg28t1hCqo-13Aod-tFe04vnBKX3E49-3jrQgCznoHtJ7RWgDM4mabTx8m8PxUgtIQ7hQAv8X3Hsq0ArsFXyuFeEMI/s400/z+maybe2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512399489319811090" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>it's not how you come back from this that counts.</div><div><br /></div><div>it's how you leave.</div><div><i>what you choose to carry with you</i></div><div><br /></div><div>it's who you are</div><div>who you'll always be</div><div>in this moment</div><div><br /></div><div>that will make every other moment still to come.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>the writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16599854409707998951noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1672595644898666102.post-70905941548079752612010-08-26T01:17:00.001+02:002010-08-26T09:20:12.388+02:00the prism<a href="http://toobaa.wordpress.com/"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJlK-F45haD44rwB0qTRvGq6XN7SMg07Wc3TVBVg0T5qoynffQj6JsBKOp6dtbZCUWUMDcR5sXeyGV9X4CR1mA5Ggk226PcSFdy62N_5ULb24hoDyIaUw8rx9JvE0lauGaiYwXTOVuWr4/s400/untitled.JPG" width="400" /></a><div><br /></div><div>And when the world starts to fade</div><div>and the fiery reds burn to ash</div><div>and you can't see the colours anymore</div><div><br /></div><div>Understand.</div><div>That it's not the world that's fading</div><div>but you that's standing in the light.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /></div>the artisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17179843028186208987noreply@blogger.com1