So recently I’ve been obsessed with Charles Bukowski, simply because his words manage to take my breath away and stick in my head.

                                                        Some lose all mind and become soul; insane
                                        Some lose all soul and become mind; intellectual
                                                    Some lose both mind and sole and become  accepted.

During his youth Bukowski was shy and socially withdrawn. His father beat him three times a week from the ages of 6 to 11. He says that it helped his writing, as he came to understand undeserved pain.

The best thing (in my opinion) about Bukowski’s writing is how he can perfectly capture unexplainable emotions and frustration with his words. Past couple of weeks, I couldn’t get myself to write, and then I come upon Bukowski’s words; “Somebody at one of these places […] asked me: ‘What do you do? How do you write, create?’ You don’t, I told them. You don’t try. That’s very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.”

He’s a source of vivid inspiration and taught me a valuable lesson. Don’t Try.

Perfect Imperfections

Once, there lived a young girl in the outskirts of an imagined town in a dreamt world. Her life was all but reality. She laughed by day and read the night away. She was surrounded by a forest infested with faeries that kept her company when she got lonely. Then one night while she was reading a book long forgotten when she realized that her life was perfect. The thought should have been welcome, instead it made her cringe. She didn’t want perfection as a friend, she wanted reality. With that thought in her head, she ran. She ran and ran until she found her life again, her reality. She stepped into the world and was welcomed by a gust of smoke and unfamiliar faces. There were no faeries, no magic, no peace and no quiet. It was all but perfect but these imperfections, they were perfect.

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‘Photographic’ memories

Yes, I love taking pictures, don’t we all? it’s not an obsession.

it’s not

ok, maybe I get a little obsessive.

The reason why is pretty simple; I don’t ever want to forget. Ever. All these memories stored up inside my head are the most precious things I own I’ve made and I simply refuse to forget a single detail. Someone’s laughter, the way they’re eyes crinkle when they smile, the way my best friend has that one special smile for the camera, my sister’s smile/frown that makes her look like she’s controlling her laughter, my brother’s obsession with food, the cat’s eyes, the dog’s hyper-ness, the way my dad laughs and my mom smiles while shaking her head, sunset in a place I probably will never get to see again, the trains honking outside… these moments, or rather, fragments of a moment will one day disappear. I’ll never get to hear the train honking outside on a regular basis, never get to see the sunset in the middle of nowhere. Our minds can only store up so much, and so I take pictures. Photographs that mean nothing and everything all together.

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