Being Inspired on Creativity

Its been quite a while now, since I have not written anything while at work. Its also been a quite a while since I wrote anything personal. Or casual. Or fun. Makes me rethink if I was writing at a…

Source: Being Inspired on Creativity


What I Learned After I Quit Blogging

So, I am going to attempt getting back to why I initially created this WordPress blog – to talk about pop culture, language, people, all the things I’m most passionate about. But considering how inconsistent I am, I am gonna take a page outta this lovely blogger’s writings!!


“I wish I could proudly say I have been blogging for almost a year. I will be celebrating my blog anniversary on 30th June. But, to be very honest this is my 5th month as a blogger because I was on …”

Source: What I Learned After I Quit Blogging

Random Snippets from the Consummate Traveler’s Personal Logs

Am I destined for my destination?

I’ve been travelling my whole life – for 26.5 years now. And only a few days of that time did I spend physically moving from one place to another. But I’ve traveled. I’ve traveled through books and words, through movies and music, through ideas and people, through every possible and impossible thing I’ve encountered.  Whatever I see or touch or taste, I stick a pair of wings to and make my next mode of transportation.

And, oh how I do fly…

I fly from one place to the next thing and then elsewhere and then next door and then wherever next. There’s always another place I have to see; someone else I have to be.

But it’s in moments like this that I travel back home. It’s in the quiet light of my room that I start undressing. It’s in the tired remains of my day that I think back to who I am. And if I’m anything at all, it’s who I am to you; it’s what I mean to you.

And so, in the quiet tired moments when I’m undeniably wide awake and yet so close to falling asleep, that’s when I travel to you. That’s when I use 26 years worth travelling experience to dissolve into an insubstantial, invisible, formless idea that is my final mode of waking transportation. I travel different in my dreams. But this gossamer idea that I embrace, so completely that it’s pressed into my skin, lifts me away to where you are. I have access to the possibility of you. And because I have a traveler’s soul, I fear I will never truly feel the despair of not actually, physically reaching you. You are my destination. But the journey itself, that is my destiny.

And I do it well.

Bread and Punctuation ( by which I mean Sex and Such)

Why does the topic of sex get most people to react that way?

There’s the disapproval, the waggling eyebrows, the giggling, the smirking and the snorting. There are inside jokes and private conversations. There are parades and politically protected expressions of ‘collective public’ sentiment.There’s the taunting and the teasing, the air of oh-so-wrongness mixed with unspecified portions of shame and guilt. And then there’re the reactions to what is considered the ‘righteous’ kind of sex. There’s talk of what is taboo and there’s hushing and shushing and a lowering of voices, pointing and staring and ogling and whispering. Also, there’s this somewhat fixed set of facial expressions that everyone seems to carry around. These are to be used (with varying degrees of moderation) where sex and such are concerned.

(Like the meme-faces below, only infinitely uglier)


You get the picture?

I mean, what if this is how people reacted to the topic of bread or coconut oil or punctuation?

People would point and suppress a giggle at the clearly coded and religiously demarcated plethora of punctuation; there would be right and wrong commas and a whole breed of parentheses that were just plain unnatural.

Then there’d be the holy, god-ordained bread and the kind that is completely devoid of morals. For the love of all that is sacred and true, bread that eats away at the fabric of society is just plain WRONG. If you had brown bread, even if you were feeding it to your mouth (connected to your stomach and, ultimately, to your bottom), what would I do with my varieties of honey crust and milk? What if, because you ate brown bread, the WHOLE world followed suit in your footsteps?? Then we wouldn’t have anyone who ate milk-bread and that is precisely what would lead to the end of the world (my holy books have all the proof you need)

And don’t even get me started on coconut oil that comes in cube-shaped containers. (That is NOT how they marketed coconut oil in the kingdoms of gods. It was shunned and frowned upon a billion years ago; even the dinosaurs were uncomfortable with the concept. I mean, who are we to argue with dinosaurs??)

My choice of bread is my damn choice of bread; especially when it’s not coerced, when it’s consensual and when I do NOT force it down your throat. I don’t care if coconut oil came in formless containers made of distilled suburban sin . I most definitely do not care to categorize the brackets and exclamations I use into categories of ‘suitable’, ‘culturally-accepted’ and ‘morally wrong’.

How do you kill a god?

How do you kill a god? Where will you cut first? Who will strike the first blow?

You could strike right away, but you hesitate. Your god is weakened, hurt and almost drained of all life. He is there, lying at your feet, whether he lies or not, you know he might have as well been doing so; kneeling, head bowed, baring his neck to you. Your job is simple and requires no more talent, no more skill than squashing a bug in the palm of your hand. So, what’s holding you back?

Fallen, beaten, bruised, but he is still a god. You cannot forget, you cannot look at him and not look at what he was, what he did. Your stomach is in knots and you do not want to be the first that strikes because you cannot ever truly believe that he is beaten, that he is not capable of, with just a slight movement, wipe the entire lot of you off the face of the earth.

How do you kill a god? How can you, a common, normal human? Do you even dare to dream of such a thing happening? Now you do. Now you can. For he is, indeed, fallen. But this is not about the fall or about the conquering of so great and mighty an opponent. This is about whether you will ever stop believing that he can rise again.

And so, as he lies there, bleeding, dying, you are already dead. You will live lives shadowed with the doubt that plagued you from the very instant you realized you were going to cut a god.

And so we each carry a god with us, around us. Like palpable clouds, we are surrounded by this.

Often, we kill our gods, often others kill them. But killing is for humans. And so a dead god will rise and take back his place. We watch people breeze past us as we walk. In our little groups, comfortable to not be a god when talking of others, we put our heads together and whisper about the god that just walked by. And we talk not of the god, for that god is human, but we talk of the god of that human. The deity that his life, his existence, his words, his work is.

And then others will talk about us and they too, talk of our gods.

Do you now know what this god is? This god breaks every now and then and people see you and think they see the exposed you, the humiliated you. They scoff at you, they pity you, they laugh, they cry: at you, for you. They think of your god and think how they have managed to see through but then they forget about their own gods and how these human gods are mortal and immortal: your god will grow back. And when this happens again and again, people start looking at you and at your god and they start realizing that they can’t differentiate any more.  

That’s when they realize that you will not stay broken, that they can’t ever react when you fall the next time. How does it matter, you only rise higher. That’s when people start either loving you or hating you.

When they love you, they realize how much more common you are for you have embraced all that is human in humans: the ability to always hope, to always rise again. And so they understand you stand on the same ground as them and together, somehow, the whole lot is raised.

When they hate you, when they feel you have a better god, a luckier one, they would rather kill your god than make their own like yours: immortal, phoenix.