light up the shining night stars

Look at the stars. See yourself in them.

तेरे लबों में एक अधूरी प्यास बाकी है — April 13, 2017

तेरे लबों में एक अधूरी प्यास बाकी है

Hey everyone! One of my friends, Shobhit Kushwaha, writes poetry and I thought why not feature one of his works over here! It’s originally in Hindi, but we’ve tried to translate it as best as we can. Enjoy!

तेरे लबों में एक अधूरी प्यास बाकी है..
(There is an incomplete thirst in your lips)

तुझसे एक अधूरी आस बाकी है ..
(There’s still one last hope from you)

ज़िन्दगी में अभी कुछ मुकाम बाकी है ..
(There are still some things left in life)

दिल में अभी तेरे एहसास बाकी है ..
(Your presence is still there in the heart)

मेरे ज़िस्म में अभी कुछ साांस बाकी है ..
(There is still some breath left in my body)

तेरे आँखों के अभी कुछ जाम बाकी है
(Looking into your eyes still makes me drunk)

तुझसे अभी कुछ अरमान बाकी है ..
(There are still some desires left for you)

मन में कुछ अनकहे ख्याल बाकी है ..||
(There are still some untold thoughts in the mind left)

How To Start A Bullet Journal — March 8, 2017

How To Start A Bullet Journal

Tips on how to start a bullet journal

Hello, everyone. My name is Just A Blank Space and you can find me at A Blog Filled With Thoughts.

I am obsessed with bullet journaling. I started it at the beginning of the year and Iridescence and I thought we would share some tips on how you can start too with you. If you want to read her tips head over to my blog.


1. Get a cute notebook

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

For bullet journaling, you don’t need many supplies but I do recommend getting a cute journal because I find cute journals motivating. It doesn’t have to be expensive. My journal is a simple one without anything on because I wanted to be able to stick things on the cover as the year goes by. I also recommend getting a cute notebook with graph paper or a grid because it makes it easier to place things and write in a straight line.

2. Don’t overthink and start simple

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Don’t try to overwork it. Start with a simple spread and try to develop your style over time. Your spreads don’t have to look perfect. I always make mistakes but I am fine with it because those little mistakes are what makes it my bullet journal and not someone else’s. Just start and you will get better every week.

3. Do what works best for you

There are a lot of bullet journal accounts on Instagram that I absolutely love because their spreads are always cute but that doesn’t mean that their system works for me. My journal is different from all the accounts I follow because I mostly use it to write down my homework. There is no perfect bullet journal system. You have to find your own to make it work.

4. Cut out pictures from magazines

Green themed bullet jounal weekly spread
This is my spread for the current week. I cut out the triangles from a magazine

I love adding cute little pictures to my spreads but I don’t want to buy expensive journaling supplies all the time. That is why I usually take my mum’s old magazines and cut out cute little pictures, doodles… I could use in a spread later on.

5. Just start

If you think about starting a bullet journal don’t hesitate. Just start and try it out. If you don’t like it you can stop whenever you want. You don’t have to be good ad drawing or have a pretty handwriting. Don’t worry if you can do it. Everyone can and the best way to start is to just do it without thinking about it.


Do any of your have any more tips on how to start?

Lots of Love

Just A Blank Space

Twitter, Instagram, Bloglovin’, Tumblr

#BirthMonth – Memories of Snow — December 19, 2016

#BirthMonth – Memories of Snow

I think that life is captured by memories. As long as we live, we will have little snapshots from our life to look back on, replaying them in the solitude of our own minds. It’s something that, for me, signifies how human I am.

As it’s winter now, and coming up to Christmas, I want to share a particular memory with you, that I experienced when I was 7. It may have been long ago, but it’s something I could never forget, simply for how beautiful it was.

I travelled to Finland with my family, to celebrate the wedding of a friend of my father’s. It was the height of winter, but Finnish winter is not like English winter. With English winter, the cold is just below freezing, and snow melts a day after it touches the ground, frost on grass and cars the only visible signs of it besides the lack of leaves on trees.

Finnish winter was different. Though the specifics of what we did on each day are blurred now, I could never forget the evening of what I believe was the second day.

In the daytime, the sun glinted off the snow, so shining that I could see it. It stretched out into a blanket, white, seeming unbroken to my young eyes, as I could not notice the little hillocks and breaks in the snow beneath my feet. It was always bitterly cold, my hands wrapped up in layers of gloves, the air welcoming any exposed skin with a chill that seemed to be never-ending.

That night, the sun had dipped just below the horizon. Though not pitch-black, it was a grey sort of light, peeping occasionally around the evening: it was like twilight. I could just about see the snow, though it didn’t appear white: it seemed muted almost.

We were near the house, and I remember the laughter, little bells of it echoing off the ground, my giggles joined with distant laughs from the other children as I investigated the snow. It crunched beneath my boots, making that glorious sound only snow can: your foot sinks into it, over and over, as you steadily explore your little patch of ground. My dad stood near me, watching, walking with me as I revelled in the sheer amount of it all.

We were on top of a hill, and the snow piled onto it, rising in soft mounds and trampled by many feet. Meandering down the side of the hill was a little slope of ice: I have always been able to recall the feel of it. As I took my glove off, the cold almost burned as I was used to the security of the fabric. I reached my hand down, feeling the powder of snow, until it reached in the break in the solid white. There, stretching only a foot or so, was ice as smooth as glass, and you could run your hand over it. It was in contrast to the snow, and I was delighted by it, and those that were brave enough – not me – used a sled to slide down, a scraping sound accompanying them.

Even after I came back, after those memories were replaced with English snow and the feel of a small patch of ice under my shoe, I couldn’t forget what I used to call ‘real’ snow. Perhaps I have glorified it in my mind, had the memory distorted, but I think that is the beauty of memory.

It was something that always symbolised living, vitality, and the true beauty of what nature could bring. There are waterfalls that spray golden droplets, rocks that are as decorative as a painting, but I feel happy whenever I think of the simplicity of that winter. Maybe it’s pretentious, but everyone has their own perceptions of life.

It was part of my life, and part of so many others’ lives too. Whether it’s snow or sun or the sea that makes you smile, it’s the life that you remember that’s important.

Thanks so much for reading! Remember to head on over to my blog if you enjoyed what you read. Thank you so much to Iridescence for allowing me to post – she’s a wonderful person and blogger, and I’ve adored her blog for so long now.

From Elm 🙂

The Journey We Call “Life” #BirthMonth — December 13, 2016

The Journey We Call “Life” #BirthMonth

Some consider the fact that being a teen means being unconscious about life, what’s going on around us, or what truly matters.

I’m a teenager. I’m 17. Young? Guess you thought so.

But I’m about to explain how age is truly just a number. You see, I was born in a humble house; father, mother and an older brother. We were doing fine. We had enough to eat, drink and clothes to wear. Both my brother and I went to a private school. So you might say we were doing just fine money wise.

I grew up, witnessing the good and the bad that was happening in our family. My dad wasn’t always there because of his job so my mom took care of us..But, a time came when my dad’s job started bringing us less and less money.. we still managed to get through it.

At the age of 14, I started having friends from everywhere, literally. Friends who were good, and others who were bad news. I got affected by both. Sadly, I got the idea that being careless and reckless was “cool”. However, I got over that fast enough and got back to my real self. I started to properly see the difference between what was bad and what was good.

Hence… being raised in a lonely town, reflected some kind of “solitude”. That meant having no friends locally, and no one “my age” to hang out with. I started entertaining myself with reading.. I mean LOTS OF READING, music and well.. writing. That’s when I started my blog. At the age of 15. And that? That was my one and only blessing.

It’s when I found myself. I found the piece that was kinda missing this whole time. You wanna know more about me? You wanna know me? Just read what I write. My story is hidden between the lines..

All teens go through ups and downs, we manage to get through everything and hold on the to the good qualities that our families raised us upon. We have a lot to learn and a lot of things to conquer and fight. You were once a teen… Don’t you remember how it felt like to be misunderstood?  How you had a lot on your shoulders.. and sometimes.. the weight was unbearable. 

I’m still 17… I have a long journey ahead of me. I have hopes and dreams and expectations. I have choices to make, and those choices are going to determine my life path. Imagine, a 17 year old making LIFE CHOICES.

The first 17 years of my life were memorable, some days past and I couldn’t go on. I needed to pause. And some days flew by so magically.. I must have mistaken them for dreams.

 

For every teen out there;  Stay strong and hold on to what you believe in. You’re not alone. You’re strong and uneasy to break. So remain that way… Follow your dreams and ALWAYS listen to that inner voice of yours !

 

Writer : Sara Akkary
Website : www.itsmesaraa.wordpress.com

Childhood Friends #BirthMonth — December 4, 2016

Childhood Friends #BirthMonth

Hey everyone! I’m Selfie from The Meandering Course. Check out my blog if you’d like. I mostly post about anything at the top of my head so things are pretty random 😀 A big thank you to Iridescence for letting me post on here for her #BirthMonth series.I love the idea! Oh and Happy Birth Month (is that a thing? it is now) Here’s a memory from when I was six or seven. I hope you like it!


I remember when I was around six or seven years old, I was friends with someone really special. He was someone who taught me things that most people my age already knew.

Both of us were in the same class. I don’t know how exactly we started talking in school. I guess we became close because we were carpool buddies and our mothers used to organize playdates for us ( I actually had a better social life then than I do now).

But whatever it was, I’m glad it happened. Because I have so many memories of us laughing together, playing weird games, I think there was a sleepover too?

I remember that as a primary school student, I had absolutely no idea of the vegetable cauliflower. This one time, at his house, his mother served us a dish which had cauliflower in it. At first when I saw it, I was confused. I had absolutely zero idea of how to eat it or what it tasted like. So I popped one into my mouth, except, I only ate the flower part of it and left the stem untouched. My friend saw me doing this and laughed.

“That’s not how you eat cauliflower!”
“Well then, how do you eat it?”
“Like this”

He then proceeded to pop the entire piece of cauliflower into his mouth, stem and all. I marveled at the fact that he just ate a STEM. Is that even possible?

“Go on, try it” he prodded me.

Hesitantly, I picked up my piece of cauliflower and attempted to eat it whole. At first, I felt a little weird because yeah umm new food that had weird parts. But after a few encouraging remarks from him, I managed to eat it whole.

I was ecstatic. It tasted heavenly. How did I not know about this?! When I went home that day, I demanded to be fed cauliflower.

Till this day, whenever I eat cauliflower or see it in the market, I remember the boy who taught me how to eat it.

I don’t know where he is now. We lost contact when he moved to London. Being the kid I was, I promptly made new friends and had playdates with other children. But I still wonder what became of him. I guess I’ll never know. But what I do know is that I’ll always have the memories of us screaming while cycling down the road, him teaching me how to make a U-turn on a cycle, playing games we made up, arguing while we were dropped to school and of course, the memory of him introducing cauliflower to me.

I hope life turned out well for him. I wish I could meet him one day and see how he’s changed and if he still remembers me. I hope he does, because I never forgot him.


 

Love,

Selfie

Deep Mind — October 3, 2016

Deep Mind

Today, I have Fabio Descalzi guest posting!


Head is blurred.
Mind is knotty.
Thought is tangled.

Missed words?
Never mind.
Just prompts.

Depth of thought.
Meanders in your mind.
Paths inside your head.

Better now?
Should be. May be.
Just thoughts.

Now I think better.
Now I feel sober.
Now I know.

Any other grief?
Not at all, chap.
Just plots.


The author: Fabio Descalzi (Montevideo, 1968) is a freelance translator, lecturer, and architect, as well as being a writer, blogger, and Wikipedist. He is a native speaker of Spanish, masters German and English, and speaks several other languages. Since July 2016 he takes part in the English-language project lucarna, https://lucarna.wordpress.com/about/


For more info on guest posting on my blog, visit this page

What you do, and would like to do — August 11, 2016

What you do, and would like to do

Hey everyone! Today, I have the amazing Luna guest posting. If you haven’t visited her blog yet, what are you waiting for!


Most of us have routines or schedules that we follow each day, but I think at some point we all wish it could go a little differently.

On a typical weekday, my day looks something like this:

  • be woken up at 7:30, but only get out of bed at 8am
  • try to multitask while brushing my teeth, therefore ending up brushing them for like ten minutes. then get dressed.
  • eat breakfast while watching YouTube videos
  • rush to pack my bag and get out the door on time. Do my hair in the car because i ran out of time.
  • sit with my friends for ten minutes before the bell goes and school actually starts
  • school. yay….?
  • after school my mum picks me up and sometime in the afternoon i’ll probably have a co-curricular thing to go to
  • eat something while watching YT videos again XD
  • think about studying and homework but never do it
  • ze dreaded guitar practice
  • spend too much time doing blog stuff 😛
  • waste more time online (Ya know, Buzzfeed, Pinterest, more YouTube…) and eat dinner
  • go to bed around 11-12

but there’s stuff i’d like to change about that… here’s my IDEAL schedule:

  • get out of bed at 7:30 (that way i won’t have to rush)
  • brush ma teeth, get dressed, do ze fab hair
  • eat breakfast while watching YouTube videos
  • get in the car and get to school
  • talk to my friends for fifteen minutes and then go to class
  • school… yay!
  • maybe go out with friends for a while
  • get picked up by mum and maybe go to a co-curricular thing
  • YouTube for a little while 😛
  • Study/ Do my homework and pack my bag for tomorrow.
  • solo dance party in my room
  • Blog!!
  • Do some kind of art stuff, cuz it’s fun and good for ze creativity
  • eat dinner, shower and sleep around 10:30-11

there isn’t a crazy huge difference but mainly i’d like to waste less time, which i am constantly working on 😛 thank you to Iridescence for letting me post here!

what stuff in your daily routine would you like to change?


Also, this was part of a collab for Auguest being held on Luna’s blog. You can read my guest post on her blog tomorrow! 🙂

Guest post by Stephanie — July 16, 2016

Guest post by Stephanie

Hey everyone!
I’m glad to say that we have Stephanie from Making time for me guest blogging!

First of all, I want to say Thank you for allowing me to Guest Post on your blog.
  It is my belief that the more we extend ourselves to sharing, featuring guest bloggers and commenting, the more successful our Blog will truly become.
  Here is link to my Blog: Making Time For Me
Also a link to when Iridescence Guest Posted on my Blog: Thursday Teenager Spotlight: 4/21
I wanted to write about the judgement that is plaguing our society right now.  I figured that a teenager from India allowing a 35 year old from the U.S. to guest blog for her, was the right platform.
My husband and I talk about the ignorance all the time.  The people who just want to “hate”, who just refuse to see that people are people.  That we all have a story to tell.  We all are just as likely to be terrible human beings as we are to be kind and generous.
Where we are from, what age we are, what gender we identify with or what religion we participate in DOES NOT matter.  Our hearts, our souls and are minds are capable of knowing love, kindness and truth.
We are capable of having friends from all over the world, with ideas that are different from our own.  In fact, isn’t that the beauty of this place?  The Earth, the internet and WordPress.  Developing an understanding, learning information and educating ourselves on the differences and similarities.
I have six children.  They range in age from 3-14.  I teach them to love whomever they want to love.  Be friends with anyone who is friendly to them, reach out to those who aren’t.  Learn about how other people live, just like you want them to understand about our big and crazy family life.
Children don’t look at the difference nearly as much as I look at the similarities.  God Bless them for that. There will always be WAY more similarities between us than differences.  So why focus on the later?
It doesn’t take much to decide to open your eyes, your heart and your mind!  I bet that your world will look much more beautiful if you do.
-Stephanie

I host guest bloggers every other saturday i.e. twice a month. Visit this page for more details.

Thoughts-land — July 2, 2016

Thoughts-land

Today’s guest blogger Sara Akkari comes to you with a little cheering up. 


I always seem to wonder how can a human being feel bad about himself? How could he hate himself physically and morally? How can one claim that he is not by any chance beautiful?

Haven’t you been totally caught up by the thought that you’re built in a way that all 8 billion human beings cannot compare? Don’t you notice your difference? And speaking of which, never don’t you EVER feel that difference is wrong.

And if by chance, you feel, think, and admit so… Here’s a little thought:

When you walk out of your own bathroom, after a long relaxing bath, don’t you notice the little wrinkles that form around your fingers and in the palm of your hands? Well, here’s a fact, no one, and I mean NO ONE has the same form of wrinkles nor the same hands.
And I’m pretty sure you don’t notice the sparkle in your eyes while you’re talking about the thing that excites you the most, the thing you totally feel passionate about. We all shine a little in different ways.
How about when you’re in class or sitting on the rooftop or staring at your TV, but not actually, you’re staring into space while you’re trapped in your own world. Your own fantasy. A world of your making. You make up stories and scenarios you dream about, till it becomes your little piece of insanity, and somehow when you get to that place, you feel sane again.

We don’t appreciate those things, and we forever wait for someone to point his finger to these things. Hence, we’re surprised, and we ask ourselves: Have I always been like that?
You doubt yourself in the most beautiful way, you’ve always been that amazing and that precious.
So, from this very second, take a look at all your perfect flaws and all your imperfect perfections, appreciate them and love them. After all, they make you, you. And without even one of them, you might have been a copy of another miracle. You and all your fellow humans, you are the most amazing miracle:
Each breath you take, each heart beat, each word spoken make you feel alive yet, even your own ashes will bring home where you belong the day you lose contact with each and every cell in your body. Your ashes are little pieces of long lost stars, trying to find their way home.
So enjoy your 3 homes- This earth, your fantasy.. and the Universe.


Bio:

Hey! I’m a young blogger from the Middle east. Writing has forever been my passion, I write about whatever crosses my mind. Other than writing, I dance, read A LOT, and well… I try to enjoy life while making others happy too 🙂

Blog: itsmesaraa.wordpress.com

 


I host guest bloggers every other saturday i.e. twice a month. For more information visit this page.

This is How I promise to Love You — June 18, 2016

This is How I promise to Love You

Today’s guest blogger is Sushmita.


They say if a writer falls in love with you, you will never die. Your love will stay alive in every word they use to spin a new story. So here I am immortalizing the way I will love you.

When I love you, my love will make you forget all the times other people made you felt unloved or insignificant. I will love you like how the sun consumes the darkness.

I will love you like I read my favorite books, over and over again. Each time discovering something new!

I will delve into every corner of every story you will ever say.

I will read between the lines and ask you questions till I can say I know you like the back of my hand. I will love you in the quotes and the words in my Moleskin, quotes that remind me of you. I will love you with every word that I pour onto paper. So that one day I can relive falling in love with you again.

I will remember the color of your eyes and how they change with the light and how they look like the color of earth-kissed by spring rains.

I will need you like the stars need the sky and the seeds need the rain.

I will desire you like a traveller desires to see the world. I will love you with my past and show you all the skeletons I kept hidden so far.

I will show you off to the world with no shame or hesitation. I will hold your hand while walking down the road or driving into the sunset. I will willingly sacrifice and go through the darkest of tunnels because I know you will be my rainbow and my light at the end of the day. I will pour all the love my tiny heart can muster onto you and hope you will do the same.

And if we ever get lost on the way, I will hold on to you a little tighter and kiss you a little longer because when a love like ours comes to life I will never want it to stray.

So I will fight harder than the hardest battle I have fought.

I will never let go; I will never give up.

This is how I will love you.

 


Bio:

My name is Sushmita; a 22 year old Indian. I love my coffee, my books and have an unhealthy obsession with stationery. I am a passionate reader and a notebook hoarder! I also love writing and can ramble in my head for hours.

Social links

Blog: http://ferventlycurious.wordpress.com/

Twitter: @frventllycurious

Instagram: read.till.dawn

 


I host guest bloggers every other saturday i.e. twice a month. For more information see this page.

No words — June 4, 2016

No words

Today’s guest blogger KashafS comes to you with a poem.

A bitter taste to my tongue,
 
A deafening noise to my ears,
 
A pungent smell of the quiet breath,
 
A clasping hand to my throat,
 
All the way down my gut,
 
The feeling of speaking no word!
 
Lost and found were they,
 
But still stood out of the way,
 
Just there at the tip,
 
Without intentions to flip,
 
And they were,
 
At the back of my mind,
 
Some place where my conscious died.
 
Just there inside,
 
Trying to read themselves,
 
And dance in front of my eye.
 
It’s the unspoken words,
 
Maybe that matter the most
 
But maybe not.
 
They do kill you inside,
 
Make your mind speak.
 
And still forbid you,
 
To speak your mind.
 
Silenced inside out,
 
The thoughts that revolve,
 
The words they speak,
 
Like hissing snakes,
 
Like biting stakes,
 
The freezing cold,
 
With chills down your spine,
 
The roaring winds,
 
Make you hug mine.
 
That laughter from that memory,
 
That sob from the sorrow,
 
Those stammers and those bitten lips,
 
All tell the tale of a mute glossary.
 
Little do words know,
 
The power they hold!
 
Vicious, the weapons they would be.
 
If not too timid to tame this world.
Author bio:
I am a new blogger, a young tomboy in her late teens. I love writing articles and poems that circulate around depression, psychological phenomenon, and other dark and intense subjects. I also write season special articles on my blog, along with motivational topics. Visit my blog at Escape Into Words where articles are divided into various categories !

I host guest bloggers on my blog every other saturday i.e. twice a month. For more information visit this page.

A world where shadows don’t belong — May 21, 2016

A world where shadows don’t belong

Today’s guest blogger is Kushal.


I’m swimming in the skies
skies burning all around
my world was on fire
the fire scalding me from the insides
I look around to find people and their own worlds
Their worlds where the skies weren’t burning,
I reach out my hand towards them,
But, my hands pass through them
My world is burning and I am alone
Is it me or is it everything else which is fake
So, I search around for my one and only companion
My companion, my shadow isn’t by my side
My world is burning, I must be dreaming
I must be dreaming nightmares
Nightmares which aren’t half horrific as the reality
The reality I have to wake up to
My world is burning, but it’s morning now
Morning where the nightmare ends and reality dawns
By dawn I wake up
my world still is burning, my shadow hasn’t returned
My world is burning, I now realise
I realise there is so much light and yet there’s no shadow
The shadow which left me, the evil shadow shall not come back
For this burning fire has cleansed my sins away
I smile to myself, my world is no longer burning
With my evil shadow gone, I have no one to hold me back
I embrace myself for now there are no restraints
A world with no holding back
My shadow was where all my sins housed themselves
My nightmare was the past
The fire is my present cleansing all my sins
And a new world shall present itself in the morning
The morning comes and I know
I know I shall not hold back my fire
I shill live where my shadow can’t come back
For all I know, I’ve cleansed myself, and I shall win, win,
And only win in this WORLD WHERE SHADOWS DON’T BELONG.
Bio:
And yeah, I’m Kushal from the secret city of Hyderabad, India (Pssst, keep in mind, It’s a secret!) I am a guy with a fair share of experiences in the Navy, and embarrassing myself in public! Well I started reading novels and curse myself for not doing so previously! I’m 20 and dream to spit over the Mt Everest and  make a snow man on each of the poles of the earth!
I started to blog pretty recently and blogging has actually created an interest in writing poems, the one above is the second poem by me!

I host guest blogger on my blog every other saturday, i.e. twice a month. For more information, see this page.

Bridges — May 7, 2016

Bridges

Today’s guest blogger Frank Einstein comes to you with a short scene.


I woke up to darkness. I couldn’t remember how I got here. At first, the place seemed aphotic, but as my eyesight adjusted, I could see bright dots in the distance, high up in the sky. The ground felt sandy, like a beach. There was a pleasant petrichor. That lifted my spirits.

“Hey, anyone out there?”, I asked with apprehension, venturing forward. I realized I was annoyingly calm, my legs were actually still. “Mom would be proud”, I said, chuckling. Just then, I heard a deep, sonorous sound coming from deep in the darkness. I ran forward, stumbling through the sand. It felt good, felt like home; I was starting to like the place, as I approached an area which was dimly lit.  I slowed down, walking slowly towards the light as I discovered the silhouette of a person far away.

“Hey! Where am I?”, I screamed out to the silhouette. It didn’t move. I kept walking towards it, and as I got closer, I saw a structure to my right; half-built, it looked like it had been abandoned. I kept moving forward, not realizing that I was running out of land. I first realized the presence of the water body when my feet started feeling wet. The water was still, weirdly calm. I noticed that the air felt stale in the proximity of the water body. I was suffocating, but I felt an ineffable need to get to the silhouette. As I moved along the shore, the structure became increasingly visible. It was the remains of a beautiful bridge. An ethereal light seemed to emanate from it’s exquisitely designed white marble. Fear started to creep in, as I grasped that while the bridge was abandoned, but it wasn’t half-built. It’s ends seemed contrastingly dark, charred really. There seemed to be two ends, both similarly charred. It was burnt, as if someone had puprosely burnt it in a demiurgic technique. The water was black, like the river Styx, as if symbolizing that it couldn’t be crossed. Inside me, my head raced, trying to figure out why all this seemed familiar. I felt like I was simply revisiting an old memory, like the silhouette was a person I once knew.

As my eyesight recalibrated, I could see that there were more bridges, each with a silhouette at its end and burnt in the middle. Looking straight ahead, I could see what seemed to be the brightest spot. It was a bridge with a silhouette at the end, just like all others. However, this time the person at the end of the bridge was still on it and this bridge wasn’t burnt. Moreover, it had another person on it. This other person was bent over and seemed to be spreading something  in the middle, completely oblivious to the person at the end, who seemed to be walking towards the middle, towards me. I ran towards the bridge, stumbling through the sand. It seemed to take an eternity to get there, but as my proximity increased, I could see that the person had struck a match, and was about to throw it on the last bridge. “NOO, STOP”, I screamed, begging him to not throw it. He turned back, perplexed. He saw me, seemingly recognizing me. He shook his head, and threw the match.

The instant the match touched the bridge, a wave of excruciating pain enveloped me. The last thing I saw as I was blacking out, was the arsonist walking towards me.

 

 

Bio:

Hey, I’m FrankEinstein, 18 years old and certified lunatic (certification by my closest friends haha). I started my blog because I needed a medium to rant and I’ve always loved ranting, but as it grew, so did my writing skills (or that’s at least what I like to think), and I started working on  making decent writing out of my emotions. My blog’s split into two parts. One is randomly themed articles, which essentially are my way of calming down, and the other is random parts of a book titled, ‘The War Within Me’, which I’m trying to finish. I’m always open to feedback, and I prefer negative constructive feedback. I hope you like some part of my blog, and have a good day 🙂

http://rantingsofadesolatesoul.wordpress.com/


I host guest bloggers on my blog every other saturday, i.e. twice a month. For more information, see this page.

Majestic — April 23, 2016

Majestic

Today’s guest blogger is Mukthi Raja


 

Underneath the unending sky,
The blue beauty bejewelled in gold,
I sit and stare blankly.
Oh, the skies speak to me;
Gently, very gently she says,
“Come with me, darling.”
Its lips, the wind,
Softly plants a peck on my cheek
and lifts me away, higher and higher; away from the world of reality.
Oh she cradles me like a daughter;
The blue beauty makes me giggle.
She laughs along, like a mother would.
She shows me heaven,
She feeds me the best of delicacies. I look down from her arms,
And the troubles of the earth
Seem to have settled.
But, the sky, she tells me
“From far away, everything, dear child,
It all looks majestic, go closer dearest, closer to find it is not all so majestic .”
How innocently did I believe the sky,
That motherly figure, the blue beauty.
“But, oh from from far away, dear child it all looks majestic, go closer dearest,
Closer to find it is not all so majestic ”
Said the sky, my saviour from the earth
And held me tight in her arms.
So much love, the blue beauty;
“Majestic I am dear child”
“Yes you are ”
” From far away only.”
She dropped me.

 

Hey there!
 I am Mukthi Raja from Hyderabad, India.

I am 17 years old and writing is more than just a passion to me, it is almost like my escape from reality and a way to rant. writing helps me express things I would never say out loud.

Talking about me as a person , I am a bit introverted as in being socially active is not my type of a thing, but I do not like being alone for a long time! I mean , I like having friends too but in this world I have realized everybody is fake ; so a few friends , some delicious food (that s the code for pizza) and a little time for myself and I am a happy girl!! ‘

https://songoftheforlorn.wordpress.com/


 

I host guest bloggers every other saturday i.e. twice a month. For more information, see this page.

The Portrait Maker — April 9, 2016

The Portrait Maker

Today’s guest blogger is Earl James.


 

An old man was lying in a bricked sidewalk. His face covered by a worn out fedora hat, his beard was gray and almost reached his stomach. A few pedestrians will stop at the presence of the old man, some will throw coins, and some give blank stares. A cop walked towards the old beggar now sitting, his back lying on a bakery’s wall.

“Stand up Ol’ man!” the cop said “you are not allowed here!”

The old man stood up, put his hat on and walked past the cop. He didn’t say anything.

“You left something Ol’ man” the cop shouted holding an old and dirty paint brush.

A crowd started to build up, curious about what is happening. The old man continued to walk. He didn’t even bother to look back. The cop shrugged and put the brush in one of his pockets. The crowd dissipated as quickly as it formed. The old man continued to walk; he walked wherever his feet would take him, he walked to eternity. Few people would look in his greasy face trying to remember if they know who the old man is. But only few could recognize him. Only few actually knew him. Only few knew his name. Only few could remember the artist he once was.

Camlin was a painter, an excellent painter rather. He was born in Berlin on 1931 but he was just five years young when his father brought them to Paris. When Hitler and the Nazi attacked France they quickly flew to Ontario, there he was captivated by the beauty of the great Niagara Falls. When he turned eighteen, he went to the United States to study in college. He spent five years wandering around New England while studying medicine. Camlin fell in love with New York, visiting its grand museums that made him fascinated about the art. Finally he gave up his studies and decided to go back to France to explore a life as a painter.

He learned the craft in Paris, going over to Louvre every day to study the paintings of Da Vinci, Van Gogh and many other great painters of the time. He was greatly influenced by Rembrandt in fact Camlin’s first art piece was a perfect imitation of Rembrandt’s the Storm in the Sea of Galilee. He developed to be good painter but art in those days were underappreciated especially imitations.

Like Rembrandt, Camlin became interested in painting portraits. He developed a keen eye for detail while he was creating imitations of Rembrandt’s and Van Gogh’s, or perhaps it was a natural talent. He could capture every line, every wrinkle of his model and he would not fail to put it in the portraits. He made a living by illustrating middle class clients paying him as little as a franc and as high as a grand. He didn’t care, he just wanted to draw.

Camlin was more of an adventurer than a painter. He used the little money he earned in painting portraits to trav­­el around the streets of Europe. He spent forty years travelling around France, Belgium, Italy, Spain and Britain. Camlin made a painting in every place he went, he will always get a model and even pay them just to create a portrait in every country he went. When the Berlin wall fell down, he decided to go home in Berlin. He translated the former East Germany into oil canvasses. Camlin also visited Moscow and Siberia. He told the story of the post-communist Russia through his paintings. He stayed there for six years, creating portraits of different people, portraits that reflect the life after the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Through these paintings he became an artist.

Camlin, then sixty years old, was in Munich when he met his wife. He was invited in a party by a rich German client named Bracken who was an art enthusiast. There he met Gertrude, a beautiful young lady with a glowing blonde hair and an angelic countenance, the only daughter of Mr. Bracken. He was immediately captivated by her beauty. Camlin ask Gertrude if he can make a portrait of her, the beautiful lady didn’t refuse. The day after the party Camlin returned to the Bracken’s mansion. Mr. Bracken let his favorite painter take her lovely daughter Gertrude for that day, they didn’t return.

Camlin brought her to a beautiful model in the famous Englischer Garten, a 910 acre park in the center of Munich. They went to his favorite place, the Monepteros and there he painted the twenty-six year old lady, Gertrude, in her red polka dot full skirt dress which she wore elegantly. It took one and a half hour for Camlin to finish his most beautiful portrait. It also took Gertrude one and a half hour to fall in love with the old man Camlin. Two days after, the new couple married in a small chapel in Munich. They moved to Berlin to start a family.

Camlin continued to make paintings in Berlin until Gertrude became pregnant two months after they moved from Munich. Camlin tried to look for a better job to support his new family but because of old age, it became hard for him to find a decent paying job. Nevertheless he got a job in a small art shop that paid him 10 euros a day as a clerk. But ten euros wasn’t enough to feed his wife together with their child in her womb.

On the sixth month of Gertrude’s pregnancy, she contracted cholera. Camlin doesn’t have enough money to bring her in the hospital. He tried to sell his paintings in the streets but got just a small amount of money from it.

One evening in their little house in downtown Berlin, Gertrude was in her bed, her baby now seven months old. Camlin sitting beside his sick wife was sketching her, nothing much had changed from the very first time they met each other he thought. Though she lost weight because of cholera, the disease didn’t take her beauty away. They were chatting, laughing with each other, when suddenly Gertrude felt a pain in her stomach. Camlin was clueless, his wife helpless. The old painter rushed his wife to the hospital. Gertrude was admitted to the delivery room. The doctors and the nurses were in an orderly chaos, a woman infected by cholera was having a premature delivery. Camlin wasn’t allowed to enter the delivery room. Gertrude now screaming in pain, the nurses watching her vital signs, the doctor waiting for the little Camlin to come out, everyone was busy, until the woman stopped screaming, the delivery room became quiet, the silence was deafening.

“She’s going flat!” a nurse shouted.

After seconds of silence they were back in a chaos, not to give birth but to revive the woman. Gertrude he was too weak for the labor. Her heart stopped beating, the doctors did everything to revive her but she didn’t respond. They called Camlin.

“How was she? Where’s our baby?” Camlin asked.

The room was quiet. The nurses, laid back, started to leave. Camlin was nervous, clueless about what has happened. He’s looking around for their child, no cries, not even sobs. Where’s Gertrude? He said to himself. Then he saw a bed, a blanket covered a body from head to toe. Camlin started to fidget, sweat forming around his neck, his heart pounding. The doctor faced him.

“I am sorry, sir” the doctor said, “your wife was too weak to give birth because of her cholera”.

“What are you saying?” Camlin asked his voice was high.

“Your wife stopped breathing during labor. We tried to revive her but she’s already weak, she died while giving birth to your stillborn child”

Camlin rushed to the bed, he saw Gertrude, her eyes closed, stationary, and breathless. He broke into tears. He did not know what to do. He called in Munich, in the Bracken’s Mansion, and told the old Bracken about her daughter. Mr. Bracken took Gertrude’s body and her child. Camlin left Germany.

He left Germany with nothing. He did not bring his brushes or his canvasses. He left his masterpieces in their little dwelling in Berlin. His last sketch, the sketch of Gertrude, was left unfinished. He left all his possessions except an old fedora hat, a gift Gertrude gave to him. He continued his life, his life before he met Gertrude, wandering around the streets of Europe. But now he lost any appetite for painting. He lost his wife, his son, and his passion.

 

 

Earl James is Filipino, a reader, an aspiring “writer” and a social activist. Visit his blog at https://iamearljames.wordpress.com/.


 

I host guest bloggers every other saturday. For more information, please see this page.