tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340141992024-03-13T19:21:00.113+05:30Joie d'VivreOf life... and its quirks.Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-73462205955741118472012-09-30T12:41:00.001+05:302012-09-30T12:41:31.816+05:30You Start Dying Slowly..<p> </p> <p>You start dying slowly <br />if you do not travel, <br />if you do not read, <br />If you do not listen to the sounds of life, <br />If you do not appreciate yourself.</p> <p>You start dying slowly <br />When you kill your self-esteem; <br />When you do not let others help you.</p> <p> <br />You start dying slowly <br />If you become a slave of your habits, <br />Walking everyday on the same paths… <br />If you do not change your routine, <br />If you do not wear different colours <br />Or you do not speak to those you don’t know.</p> <p> <br />You start dying slowly <br />If you avoid to feel passion <br />And their turbulent emotions; <br />Those which make your eyes glisten <br />And your heart beat fast.</p> <p> <br />You start dying slowly <br />If you do not change your life when you are not satisfied with your job, or with your love, <br />If you do not risk what is safe for the uncertain, <br />If you do not go after a dream, <br />If you do not allow yourself, <br />At least once in your lifetime, <br />To run away from sensible advice…</p> <p> <br />- Pablo Neruda</p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-72046442247043911862012-09-11T22:19:00.001+05:302013-03-14T22:48:46.110+05:30Sad Goodbyes<p>Despite the endearing nicknames and the heartfelt promises of keeping in touch over bbm somehow it still feels like a dreadful goodbye. One that I dont want to say. </p> <p>Life takes me through these twists where I often do what I dont want to but have to because thats what I have wanted all along. Its too bad that I started loving the journey more than the destination. Its too bad I let go of people I ll miss forever. </p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-31022316020728430102012-09-05T15:14:00.001+05:302012-09-05T15:14:05.014+05:30<p>                                                  <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/--mrQDYgH54k/UEce3ZzE7EI/AAAAAAAAAHI/wYIAoAC-imI/s1600-h/advicefromatree%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; border-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; border-right: 0px" title="advicefromatree" border="0" alt="advicefromatree" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-75P1VMfT4b8/UEce4uByhvI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/SLfjFaDxylA/advicefromatree_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="137" height="253" /></a></p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-80547000138232721202011-09-20T07:36:00.001+05:302011-09-20T07:44:19.397+05:30<p> </p> <p><font size="2"><em>I have had my chances. I have tried and tried. I have stitched life into me like a rare organ</em>- Sylvia Plath </font></p> <p>I sometimes get very scared that I find myself identifying so strongly with early twentieth century mild to strong female feminist authors who ended up killing themselves. Virginia Woolf walked into the sea with stones in her pocket. Sylvia Plath pushed her head into the oven. Her children were asleep in the very next room. And I am not talking about identifying with the common intention of committing suicide. It’s the suicide of a bright promising mind rather than the mundane destruction of a life.</p> <p>Is being an intelligent aware woman a left handed compliment by God? You might be good enough, but destined to go through life unappreciated. It irks me when I read about aspiring women authors in the early twentieth century who sent their works to publishers under a masculine pseudonym to avoid discrimination of their works because of their gender. What really saddens me is even today I find many women not confident enough to accept their sex and whatever comes with it. The name ‘JK Rowling’ doesn’t sound like she is a woman, does it ? </p> <p>I have many friends, both guys and girls alike who think girls cant be friends amongst themselves. One of them was a girl I was on very good terms with. Listening to her, I felt like a metaphorical Sylvia Plath on her way to the oven in the kitchen. If I cant prove by example, I wonder what other method is convincing enough. </p> <p>Answers, anyone?</p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-85194365398570270352011-09-15T04:05:00.001+05:302011-09-15T04:05:13.743+05:30How to be happy..<p> </p> <p>Be sad. Grieve the bad things that happen to you. Allow yourself to feel terrible because it’s the only way you can ever really feel good again. Don’t say “I’m fine!” when you’re actually not because it’s only going to make you feel worse. There’s no shame in spending an afternoon in bed feeling sorry for yourself. There’s no shame in giving someone an honest answer when they ask how you’re doing. It’ll feel liberating actually. Saying “I feel like crap!” is the fastest ticket to “I feel great!”</p> <p>Have healthy amounts of sex. Treat it like it’s a vitamin. Have you taken yours today? It’s essential that you feel desired and connected to another person. Have sex with someone on a Tuesday and watch it tide you over for the next few weeks. Feel complete and fulfilled, like you’ve just crossed something important off of your to-do list. Go up to your next partner and tell them, “Hello. Something is missing from my life and I believe it’s your penis or vagina. Would you mind having sex with me so I can be restored back to health? Thanks so much. You’re such a good person.”</p> <p>Realize that being happy is a conscious decision. You could be one of the lucky ones who has happiness come easily to them, but most people need to make a concentrated effort to feel good. This doesn’t make you weak or a phony. It just means that you’re a person who knows how bad life can get.</p> <p>Delete the toxic people in your life. They can include The Friend Who Makes Me Feel Bad About Myself, The Friend Who Will Only Hang Out With Me Behind Closed Doors, And The Friend I Can’t Depend On For Anything. This an ongoing project. Toxic people don’t go away overnight but it’s important to recognize who they are and begin to cut the fat. If you’re unsure if a friend is toxic or not, just ask yourself the question, “How often do I find myself pissed or upset at this friend’s behavior?” If the answer is “OMG, like a lot!”, you got some trimming to do.</p> <p>Don’t feel guilty about doing something you knew would hurt you. Don’t beat yourself up about sleeping with the boy who makes you feel like crap the second you orgasm, or a night in which you got too drunk because it doesn’t do you any good. You just shame spiral about it, which makes you more inclined to do it again. You have to be like, “Yikes! I shouldn’t have done that again because I know it makes me feel bad but, oh well, I did so let’s move on and hopefully learn from my mistakes.” Understand that you’re going to be doing a lot of stupid things in your life so you can’t fixate on every single one.</p> <p>Do more of the things that make you happy and less of the things that don’t. This might sound simple and obvious but, hi, it’s not. Sometimes you don’t even know something is making you unhappy until you actually take a step back from it.</p> <p>Try to do things that terrify you because it will make you feel like a strong evolved person. You’ll scream, “I’m a person who conquers fears. Yay!” You might even be able to join some sort of club, or at the very least, get a gold star.</p> <p>Be honest with yourself and other people. In this day and age, there are so many opportunities for BS. Don’t be afraid of #realtalk.</p> <p> </p> <p>*The original article can be found on this awesome website:-<a title="http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/how-to-be-happy/" href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/how-to-be-happy/">http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/how-to-be-happy/</a></p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-50613660777711864212011-09-04T09:25:00.001+05:302011-09-04T09:25:02.576+05:30<p> </p> <p>I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. <br />Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. <br />Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day <br />I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. <br />I hunger for your sleek laugh, <br />your hands the color of a savage harvest, <br />hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, <br />I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. <br />I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, <br />the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, <br />I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, <br />and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, <br />hunting for you, for your hot heart, <br />Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue." </p> <p>- Pablo Neruda</p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-89698929678875338342011-08-01T23:26:00.001+05:302011-08-01T23:26:09.332+05:30From "The Vagina Monologues" - Eve Ensler<p>It is not an invitation <br />a provocation <br />an indication <br />that I want it <br />or give it <br />or that I hook. </p> <p> <br />My short skirt <br />is not begging for it <br />it does not want you <br />to rip it off me <br />or pull it down. </p> <p> <br />My short skirt <br />is not a legal reason <br />for raping me <br />although it has been before <br />it will not hold up <br />in the new court. </p> <p> <br />My short skirt, believe it or not <br />has nothing to do with you. </p> <p> <br />My short skirt <br />is about discovering <br />the power of my lower calves <br />about cool autumn air traveling <br />up my inner thighs <br />about allowing everything I see <br />or pass or feel to live inside. </p> <p> <br />My short skirt is not proof <br />that I am stupid <br />or undecided <br />or a malleable little girl. </p> <p> <br />My short skirt is my defiance <br />I will not let you make me afraid <br />My short skirt is not showing off <br />this is who I am <br />before you made me cover it <br />or tone it down. <br />Get used to it. </p> <p> <br />My short skirt is happiness <br />I can feel myself on the ground. <br />I am here. I am hot. </p> <p> <br />My short skirt is a liberation <br />flag in the women's army <br />I declare these streets, any streets <br />my vagina's country. </p> <p> <br />My short skirt <br />is turquoise water <br />with swimming colored fish <br />a summer festival <br />in the starry dark <br />a bird calling <br />a train arriving in a foreign town <br />my short skirt is a wild spin <br />a full breath <br />a tango dip <br />my short skirt is <br />initiation <br />appreciation <br />excitation. </p> <p> <br />But mainly my short skirt <br />and everything under it <br />is Mine. </p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-79162503876887561742011-07-22T19:57:00.001+05:302011-07-22T19:57:23.867+05:30The Archipelago Of Kisses by Jeffrey McDaniel<p><em></em></p> <p><em>We live in a modern society. </em></p> <p><em>Husbands and wives don't grow on trees, like in the old days. </em></p> <p><em>So where does one find love?</em></p> <p><em></em></p> <p><em>When you're sixteen it's easy, </em></p> <p><em>like being unleashed with a credit card</em></p> <p><em>in a department store of kisses.</em></p> <p><em></em></p> <p><em>There's the first kiss.</em></p> <p><em>The sloppy kiss. The peck.</em></p> <p><em>The sympathy kiss. </em></p> <p><em>The backseat smooch. </em></p> <p><em>The 'we </em><em>shouldn't be doing this' kiss.</em></p> <p><em>The 'but your lips </em><em>taste so good' kiss.</em></p> <p><em>The 'bury me in an avalanche of tingles' kiss.</em></p> <p><em>The 'I wish you'd quit smoking' kiss.</em></p> <p><em>The 'I accept your apology, but you make me really mad</em></p> <p><em>sometimes kiss'. </em></p> <p><em>The 'I know your tongue like the back of my hand' kiss. </em></p> <p><em>As you get older, kisses become scarce. </em></p> <p><em>You'll be driving home and </em></p> <p><em>see a damaged kiss on the side of the road, </em></p> <p><em>with its purple thumb out.</em></p> <p><em>If you were younger,</em></p> <p><em>you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's</em></p> <p><em>red door just to see how it fits. </em></p> <p><em>Oh, where does one find love?</em></p> <p><em>If you rub two glances, you get a smile.</em></p> <p><em>Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.</em></p> <p><em>Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss. </em></p> <p><em>Now what? </em></p> <p><em>Don't invite the kiss over</em></p> <p><em>and answer the door in your underwear. </em></p> <p><em>It'll get suspicious and stare at your toes. </em></p> <p><em>Don't water the kiss with whiskey. </em></p> <p><em>It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters, </em></p> <p><em>but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of</em></p> <p><em>your body without saying good-bye, </em></p> <p><em>and you'll remember that kiss forever</em></p> <p><em>by all the little cuts it left</em></p> <p><em>on the inside of your mouth.</em></p> <p><em></em></p> <p><em>You must nurture the kiss.</em></p> <p><em>Turn out the lights. </em></p> <p><em>Notice how it illuminates the room.</em></p> <p><em>Hold it to your chest</em></p> <p><em>and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses </em></p> <p><em>comes from a special beach. </em></p> <p><em>Place it on the tongue's pillow, </em></p> <p><em>then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath</em></p> <p><em>a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.</em></p> <p><em></em></p> <p><em>But one kiss levitates above all the others. </em></p> <p><em>The intersection of function and desire. </em></p> <p><em>The 'I do' kiss.</em></p> <p><em>The 'I'll love you through a brick wall' kiss. </em></p> <p><em>Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth, </em></p> <p><em>like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.</em></p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-43609774125807615302011-07-21T19:08:00.001+05:302011-07-21T19:08:42.395+05:30<p>Isn’t it ironic how we sometimes associate freedom with a place? Nowhere on Earth will I ever feel as hopeful as I feel here. </p> <p>Sadly, this euphoria is not without its disadvantages. They don’t have AC/Heater here for the extreme temperatures. Not as small price to pay as many might think. </p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-26415949013196568992011-03-04T03:12:00.001+05:302011-03-04T03:12:01.825+05:30<p><a name="1271211835637007064"></a></p> <p>I used to think that you were mine</p> <p>And I knew I could tell you  </p> <p>              … how I felt.</p> <p>You were my soul </p> <p>Part of my whole</p> <p>My anchor and My being.</p> <p>But then I had to go</p> <p>You see, I have to have </p> <p>A life of my own.</p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-46177816721314604682010-11-16T16:18:00.001+05:302010-11-16T16:18:01.628+05:30<p><font size="4">You Don’t Know What Love Is</font></p> <p>You Don't Know What Love Is <br />but you know how to raise it in me <br />like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to <br />wash off the sludge, the stench of our past. <br />How to start clean. This love even sits up <br />and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps. <br />Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want <br />to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive <br />to some cinderblock shithole in the desert <br />where she can drink and get sick and then <br />dance in nothing but her underwear. You know <br />where she's headed, you know she'll wake up <br />with an ache she can't locate and no money <br />and a terrible thirst. So to hell <br />with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt <br />and your tongue down my throat <br />like an oxygen tube. Cover me <br />in black plastic. Let the mourners through. </p> <p>-Kim Addonizio</p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-45567636884300862882010-11-16T16:05:00.001+05:302010-11-16T16:05:04.412+05:30The Venal Muse<p><b><i><font size="4">by Charles Baudelaire</font></i> </b></p> <p><b>Muse of my heart, lover of grand chateaux, <br />When January unleashes storm and sleet, <br />Through the black dreary evenings when it snows, <br />Will you have coals to warm your violet feet ? </b></p> <b> <p> <br />With gleaming starlight that has pierced the blinds <br />Will you reanimate your shoulder's cold Marble? <br />Your palate dry, your purse unlined, <br />From vaults of azure will you harvest gold ! </p> <p> <br />To earn your evening bread you'll have to swing <br />The censer like a choirboy, and sing <br />Te Deums of which you don't believe a word, </p> <p> <br />Or, starving clown, show off your charms, your smile <br />Wet with tears that none see, to beguile <br />And cheer the sick spleen of the vulgar herd. </p></b> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-82479934472932544372010-11-05T14:22:00.002+05:302010-11-05T14:24:54.520+05:30<p>I have decided. My aim in life is to be a basketball. </p><p>You oscillate from one extreme to another. The high of scoring a basket to the crippling agony of being banged on the ground too many times. They call it dribbling by the way. </p><p>And,Life dribbles you. Constantly. </p><p>So, why not be a basketball,if only to bounce back?</p>Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-30827295978064483082010-11-02T14:30:00.001+05:302010-11-02T14:30:34.337+05:30Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned - BuddhaWynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-31515741745454560962010-07-24T19:57:00.002+05:302010-07-24T20:04:41.383+05:30<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/TEr5uX2CjZI/AAAAAAAAAFA/IM-eGbfxwQo/s1600/928a78a08ec62f23ddb1288aea85702a.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/TEr5uX2CjZI/AAAAAAAAAFA/IM-eGbfxwQo/s400/928a78a08ec62f23ddb1288aea85702a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497480870229085586" border="0" /></a>
<br /><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:10pt;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Redemption
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</w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:1; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 0 0 0 0 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-520092929 1073786111 9 0 415 0;} @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1593833729 1073750107 16 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page WordSection1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">It happens so many times. You go to a party. You are having a fabulous time only to be cruelly disrupted out of your temporary bliss by the arrival of people you seriously, irrevocably and of course, very understandably detest.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">From the clenched cheeked smiles to the very discreet but obvious inspection of your outfit, your looks and your date-These are the type one of the Complete Moronic Types who feel the need to compete with everything on two, three or four legs that gets more attention than them.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The stories I could tell you..<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">
<br />Once, to my complete and utter delight I had the honour of being the subject of unfathomable envy to the power of infinity. Logic said that since I was thought to be somewhat fashionable, this complete jackass (a prime example of what I was earlier talking about) copied my exact wardrobe down to the silly kind of cheap hair clips I wore. Now with all my adolescent glory, I spent many an evening outwardly scowling but secretly enjoying the company of her very embarrassing faux pas’. I later gifted my pair of old shoes to her after much polishing and repairing just for the satisfaction of sniggering behind her back. Such is the devious mind of a modern female teenager.
<br />
<br />I still have some vestiges of the above qualities left, but it had scaled impressive heights at a certain point of time. Not to sound very self obsessive, but I find myself as the best example of how misanthropists rock the world. From arm-twisting self important people (figuratively) to quietly enjoying vicarious rewards, I won every bet against society. No matter if the worlds of various detestable men and women came crashing around them. I was a master at manipulation and my sympathies were for no one.
<br />
<br />Spending a lot of time watching American movies, reading psychoanalysis journals and with people whom I secretly believed were dropped around a lot as babies, what I ultimately decided to do was only natural.
<br />
<br />Again, it was a party. A very memorable party. I am sure you would remember it too if you were privy to the time and place of the event.
<br />
<br />A trusting, affectionate and credulous friend of mine had put yours truly in charge of arranging food and drink. It was the graduation party. Actually, a couple of smiles and the usual social coquetries got me the job really. After that it was only the simple affair of sprinkling a bit of tartar emetic into the food and drinks. It looks like your ordinary table salt. Very digestible and non-traceable apparently. Of course the credulous concerned friend was to be compulsorily served. I had no intention of this grand finale back firing.
<br />
<br />Anyway, the timing or the situation couldn’t have been more perfect. Once I arrived at the venue I only had to charm my way through the elite hierarchy of lambs to reach the beverage source. I was very sad to poison all of them. But I literally had no choice. You see, I had already spent a lot of money at the chemist’s.
<br />
<br />It made some 20 congested lines in the 3rd page of the local newspaper with the headline claiming “30 dead after excessive partying”. The article blamed everything beginning from drugs to indiscipline lifestyles.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style=""> </span>Morons, right?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">
<br />Today I am in another time and another dimension, enjoying the hard earned fruits of my labour peacefully without the interfering presence of my friend.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><span style=""> </span>It was almost obscenely easy to get away with it. Just keep quiet and nobody will notice.<span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<br /><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:10pt;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">
<br /></span></span></span>Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-65007632883877325882010-06-02T23:38:00.001+05:302010-06-03T17:29:34.586+05:30Life and its difficult choices…<p> </p> <p>And if that wasn’t enough in itself, a righteous upbringing makes the weigh-in between right, wrong and the grey very compulsory.Inconvenient and unnecessarily so. New crossroads at  every turn, I doubt if I’ll ever get accustomed to its confusing challenges. I’ve hated making so many choices in my life. Most of the times I did it with my back against the wall. But never have I hated it as much as this one.</p> <p>“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” –Robert Frost </p> Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-23953204335350064912010-05-15T23:09:00.000+05:302010-05-15T23:36:35.581+05:30<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/S-7iGgXhRGI/AAAAAAAAAEY/ptFl13D7vrI/s1600/balllad.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/S-7iGgXhRGI/AAAAAAAAAEY/ptFl13D7vrI/s400/balllad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471559198697407586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />A Year</span><br /></span><br /><br />While writing about my experiences last time I had no idea it would be another long year before I would visit my dashboard again.<br />Its been a tumultuous journey. Several heartbreaks, a few breakthroughs and the regular ounce of wisdom that only a year's worth of growing up brings. I went to several places . Too many really, for a laidback traveller's comfort. But I am at a stage where professional responsibilities always come first, in the hope that someday responsibility to myself will take the coveted place.<br /><br />Anyway, one and a half month of nothing to do will hopefully block my writer's block to come up with more interesting articles like those of my yester-years -> <a href="http://pinxjinxed.blogspot.com/2008/02/it-is-time-love-to-break-off-that.html">this</a> , <a href="http://pinxjinxed.blogspot.com/2009/05/inscrutable-me.html">this</a> and <a href="http://pinxjinxed.blogspot.com/2006/09/why.html">this</a>.<br /><br />Stay tuned. I'll be coming back soon.Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-67424083816552851872009-06-09T22:00:00.000+05:302009-06-09T22:32:16.854+05:30I've been dormant on my blog for over a year. Not that i didn't have the resources to write.. More like i had nothing to write.<br /><br />Or so I thought ..<br /><br />Looking back in time as well as through my blog I realized how impersonal I sounded. Like i run a radio show whose fans had to be kept entertained although not at the expense of divulging the dirty secrets of my life.<br />It took me some time to realize its only a matter of perception. Yours and what you think/dont think others perceive of you. Sounds like a whole load of hogwash .. I know. But thats the truth of it.<br />I will name a few blogs at the end of this post whose genuineness is the only reason behind its popularity. I look up to these people. Those who aren't scared of being frank, honest and more importantly of being themselves; to hell with what others adhere to as being acceptable social behavior. Let them practice it if they love it so much.<br />You may find it hard to comprehend what the fuss is all about... I'd say you are one of the lucky few who are either past this stage or are yet to reach it.<br /><br />I remember a time when I so wanted to fit in that I chose to be confused rather than stand my ground. Of course, on the outside I was still seen as stubborn and ill mannered with a short fuse. My image mattered more .. because i couldn't stand the possibility of being ridiculed of who <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I </span></span>actually was.<br />Ridiculing me for who I am not ... ? Sure.Go ahead.Whatever.<br /><br />Today I wish I had never set eyes on some of the people I so wanted to fit in with.<br />Today I'd rather get my tongue pierced with a hot iron needle than try to fit in with them.<br /><br />Sounds like i hate them. Guess i have changed for the better. And thankfully so. Hopefully they have realized it as well... although I still have reservations of them seeing through my thin veneer of contempt.<br /><br />I am 21 and unemployed and never felt more optimistic about my future.<br /><br />Regards,<br /><br />A typical confession by a typical twenty something.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://phishfish.blogspot.com">http://phishfish.blogspot.com</a><br /><a href="http://thecompulsiveconfessor.com">http://thecompulsiveconfessor.blogspot.com</a>Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-29778112946150056862009-05-03T23:37:00.001+05:302009-05-03T23:37:42.111+05:30<strong>Inscrutable Me ....</strong><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">WARNING: The following post is very long and it WILL test your patience. At the end of which you may not consider it a virtue.</span></em><br /><em></em><br />INSCRUTABLE AMERICANS – by anurag mathur( spoiler!)<br /><br />Anurag mathur’s Inscrutable Americans is the book to read if you want to laugh away your free time. The book, of just around two hundred and fifty pages, is a whole new form of original humour within a cliché-humour with the apt grammer and hilariously literal interpretation of American slangs by the novel’s main protagonist, Gopal.<br /><br />The book begins with Gopal, a regular 20 year old country bumpkin, writing a letter to his brother back in his small hometown of Jajau about the many wonders of American lifestyle. His insatiable appetite for the “American” Coca-Colas, to the pride over his ‘national hair oil’ factory and his complete bafflement when a total stranger warns him –“watch your ass”(“ Now brother ,this is wonderful. How is he knowing we are purchasing donkey?”)- everything fits in to give the character a refreshingly naïve amusing charm. Of course, what makes it more convincing is that all the letters that Gopal writes to his brother are in present continuous tense.<br /><br />‘Inscrutable Americans’ is infact nothing but Gopal’s first impression of America written in a series of witty remarks and other times, just plain moronic observations you cant help but laugh at! Gopal being used to dark hair all his life asking- “Are red haired women….red all over?” and afterwards pointing at billboards that advertised undergarments- “Look! Whole family is naked!”.<br />The soul of the story lies in the friendship between the all American dude, Randy and Indian hair oil prince, Gopal. Some of the funniest as well as heart-warming scenes occur in the presence of these two characters. ‘Operation de-virginisation’ and gopal’s fascination with almost everything American sounds so curiously real, one wonders if it’s loosely based on the author’s own experience.<br /><br />However, the story is not just about the crazy antics of rustic Gopal. As the story proceeds further, it unravels gopal’s natural shrewdness and keen intellect. It gives an insight into the life of a foreign student living in America. There are several embarrassing instances of racism, Gopal’s undying patriotism for his motherland and he in turn discovering that in America, they do not speak English, but an alien language called American.<br /><br />Anurag mathur ends the story with a subtle and unexpected twist in the tail that has its own unique style. Not to be ignored, the book is a definite must read- a blessing for those looking forward to a light read and escape from the usual soporific course books.Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-91336481313097024402008-05-24T15:57:00.000+05:302008-05-24T16:33:09.534+05:30SO u think you aren't good enough for the world..<br />that they will stop singing your praises one day?<br />so u think, everything is just so pointless ...<br />when one day everyone is going to meet one common end?<br />so u think, nobody gives a damn about anyone else...<br />everyone is playing a role, each striving for their own grand finale?<br />so u think, money is a name for golden dirt ...<br />no wonder it makes the world go round ?<br />so u think, books are a coward's succor.<br />and that life isn't worth that weak a gamble?<br />so u think, today i care for you.<br />and tomorrow i will move on to greener pastures?<br />so u think, u know what i am capable of.<br />by playing cunning games to get to my truths?<br />And now u think, whatever i write is a hopeless show.<br />just like a pantomime playing for the blind...Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-41031762816787050372008-04-27T23:33:00.000+05:302008-12-13T10:45:54.731+05:30<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/SBTBdK51CcI/AAAAAAAAABw/tg_0K18ENB0/s1600-h/byronacademy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/SBTBdK51CcI/AAAAAAAAABw/tg_0K18ENB0/s400/byronacademy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193988977152297410" border="0" /></a><br />I have not loved the World, nor the World me;<br />I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed<br />To its idolatries a patient knee,<br />Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud<br />In worship of an echo; in the crowd<br />They could not deem me one of such-I stood<br />Among them, but not of them- in a shroud<br />Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,<br />Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.<br /><br />I have not loved the World, nor the World me,<br />But let us part fair foes; I do believe,<br />Though I have found them not, that there may be<br />Words which are things,-hopes which will not deceive,<br />And Virtues which are merciful, nor weave<br />Snares for the failing; I would also deem<br />O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve-<br />That two, or one, are almost what they seem,-<br />That Goodness is no name-and Happiness no dream.<br /><br />-George Gordon Noel Byron, Canto iii of Childe HaroldWynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-37066390910470134792008-03-02T06:11:00.000+05:302008-03-24T12:18:30.050+05:30<span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"> I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I know that the clubs are weapons of war</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I know that diamonds mean money for this art</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But that's not the shape of my heart</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A recent incident got me thinking.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">How much importance does an average person give to others? What is the degree of cold heartedness a person can be capable of ... towards someone entirely opposite?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Have we finally entered the ideal materialistic world ... one which has no place for hearts ruling over heads.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Forget the inflation and your desire to be financially careless; what you did when you were 18 and drunk ...and the time you wished you had never existed.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Forget your need to victory over everyone.Especially the person you are most jealous of.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Do you really want to spend the rest of your life chasing something you were always taught of as inconsequential.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">And when you were 8 and had it explained to you why it felt so bad to turn against someone who trusted you,do you remember the remedy you took? </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Or for that matter, did you take any at all? </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">P.S. I know I sound somewhat abstract.Or atleast I wanted to. I had sat down to write about something entirely different from what I have portrayed. Does it happen to you too? Really strange ... </span><br /><br /><br /></span>Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-74524181681865536752008-02-09T19:57:00.000+05:302008-12-13T10:45:54.897+05:30<strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">It is time, love, to break off that sombre rose,shut up the stars and bury the ash in the earth;</span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">and, in the rising of the light, wake with those who awoke or go on in the dream,</span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">reaching the other shore of the sea which has no other shore.</span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></strong><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/R63JHuvjxII/AAAAAAAAAA0/FWQivP_38Pw/s1600-h/Photo-0114.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165005482307601538" style="" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/R63JHuvjxII/AAAAAAAAAA0/FWQivP_38Pw/s400/Photo-0114.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I love poetry.<br />Some of my all time favourites -<br /><br />1.The highwayman by alfred noyes - I dont know anyone who isn't a fan of this poem. And if you haven't read this one yet, I am surprised you're still at my blog. Go get some pseudo-intellectual poetry stimulation first. hmmph! (and then come back? okay?)<br /><br />2.Macavity, The Mystery Cat by T.S. Eliot- This was the very first poem I liked. And still do. "He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity." It's obvious why I like this poem so much. ;)<br /><br />3.She walks in beauty by Lord Byron- Yes ! yes ! This poem is all about me.<br /><br />4.ALL poems by Pablo Neruda. I wish I could follow spanish just so that I could read all his original works. One of my faves:-<br /><br />I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,<br />or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.<br />I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,<br />in secret, between the shadow and the soul.<br /><br />I love you as the plant that never blooms<br />but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;<br />thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,<br />risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.<br /><br />I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.<br />I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;<br />so I love you because I know no other way<br /><br />than this: where 'I' does not exist, nor 'you',<br />so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,<br />so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.<br />- Pablo Neruda Love Sonnet XVII<br /><br />5.Last but the not the least. Came across this poem a long time back in a diary I used to maintain a longer time back. I dont know the poet.. and I am going crazy figuring out whose handwriting its written in .. because its certainly not mine !<br /><br />SHATTERED<br /><br />What if I can't feel anymore and turned my back on you?<br />Walked out the door?<br />Would you let me be if I looked away?<br />And if I needed you to watch over me-<br />how far wou ld you go?<br />How much would you show?<br />Would you wait for me if I was led astray?<br />What if I felt passionate tonight and I searched for you?<br />Turned down the light?<br />Would you give to me if I asked you to stay?<br />And if I needed to escape it all-<br />would you set me free?<br />Would you recapture me?<br />Would you remember me if I ran away?<br />What if you were sick of it all and gave up on everything?<br />To brace for the fall?<br />Would you care for me if nothing else mattered?<br />And if you were weeping in the rain-<br />could I wipe your tears?<br />Could I dispel your fears?<br />Would you let me see if your soul had been battered?<br />What if the rain fell down upon meand knocked me to the ground?<br />Then fed on me?<br />Would you comfort me when my wits have been scattered?<br />And what if I lost all belief-<br />of my immortality?Of my destiny?<br />Would you cry for me if my world was shattered?<br /><br /><br />And in case you are wondering (or were wondering) what's with the weird pic with the fog and all ; its the view from my window right now as i sit procrastinating with my blog rather than go and study for my test which is in ...um...well,6 hours.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p>Here's to poetry and beautiful mornings. I hope they always remain the same. </p><p> </p>Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-22954392410343461452008-01-26T17:43:00.000+05:302008-12-13T10:45:55.230+05:30<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/R63Qc-vjxJI/AAAAAAAAAA8/UpJMVctx1AU/s1600-h/34050769.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165013543961216146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/R63Qc-vjxJI/AAAAAAAAAA8/UpJMVctx1AU/s400/34050769.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-OnxavQ7olY/R5slr_yxnqI/AAAAAAAAAAc/i47uRs367jE/s1600-h/34050769.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>Reminds me of the novel, "Message in a bottle" . I haven't seen the movie, but if I was Theresa Osbourne I would skip the ocean for this river anyday.<br />By the way,this is where i live. No, not on the tree or in the river or any place visible in the picture really.I live in a big castle surrounded by robots,superheroes and mutants.They obey my every whim and desires. And i dont share them.. so forget about any wishes you were beginning to have . Muhahaha ! >:)<br /><br />ANYWAY ... This place actually exists.Seriously,no jokes.And it exists in my city !! I didnt click it myself. Rather, i dont even know who clicked it. Picked it up from a random fellow-orkuteer's album. Now, I think I should have asked rather than slyly steal it away. wish I could locate its exact spot.<br /><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>p.s. i changed my blog's template ... if only anyone would notice. Cruel,cold,apathetic,selfish,materialistic world. *sniff*</div><br /><br /><div></div></div>Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34014199.post-37385323406551145902008-01-25T21:16:00.000+05:302008-01-31T21:11:20.753+05:30<pre><br /></pre><table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" width="100%"><tbody><tr><td valign="top" width="80%"><span class="TITLE">"What Do Women Want?"</span> </td> <td colspan="2" align="right" nowrap="nowrap" valign="top"> <br /></td> </tr> <tr><td colspan="3"> by <a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/725">Kim Addonizio</a></td></tr></tbody></table><pre><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I want a red dress.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I want it flimsy and cheap,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I want it too tight, I want to wear it</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">until someone tears it off me.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I want it sleeveless and backless,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">this dress, so no one has to guess</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">what's underneath. I want to walk down</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">with all those keys glittering in the window,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I want to walk like I'm the only</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">woman on earth and I can have my pick.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I want that red dress bad.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I want it to confirm</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">your worst fears about me,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to show you how little I care about you</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">or anything except what</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">from its hanger like I'm choosing a body</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to carry me into this world, through</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the birth-cries and the love-cries too,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">it'll be the goddamned</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">dress they bury me in.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Finally a poem that's different. </span><br /></pre>Wynteyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11982230065194600067noreply@blogger.com5