Birds on a Wire

As a kid, while I was still grappling with my ability to write and artfully sculpt letters, I remember the daunting feeling of flipping through the school notebook which came streaked with dotted lines. I remember how I would try to precariously balance my wavy, uncertain letters on them. And I still remember my mother holding my hands, waltzing the tip of my pencil from the dotted line into the white space of endless possibilities above it, weaving a loop to make the perfect 'l' and gliding it back to the line to end the performance with a celebratory sweep. Back then, I recognized my love for the theatrics of writing letters--of assembling them to make words, and putting the stories that I mad up in my head, onto paper.

I made this picture while driving the other day. {Don't worry, I parked the car on the side}. The birds on the wire somehow took me back to my kindergarten days and reminded me of the letters and the dotted lines. I don't know why I made this picture, but perhaps something is telling me to rewrite the story I set out to write for myself, or alter the plot a bit. It's funny how some things you come across in life, bring back some of the most unintentionally related memories. Thankfully, this was a happy one.

{longing, memories, love, photography, writing, happy incidents, notes to self}

Uninvited

After months you visit me again. You had disappeared, I thought. I had torn our memories and flung them in a corner, where they could no longer break me. Alas, you arise like a ghost...I see you walking in my arms across the street, as I wait at a signal in my car. I see you sprawled on my bed, when I reach home. I see you in the face of every stranger who walks by. I see you sitting at our favourite table in a café we frequented.

***

Love is a glamorous affair. How we love to prick our heart and drown in self-designed misery. How we foolishly relish every moment built by time, reliving certain situations over and over again. We become broken records. Un-repairable. Un-amendable. And we continue to play ourselves out, even though the tune may not be right anymore. We become an album of imperfect, cacophonous images, faded by time.

{heartaches, longing, love stories, memory, remembering, thoughts}