Skip to main content
Space and time. It is just game of these two, and we are toys.

Looking at the evening sky, poet wants to embrace all those colors and live all, while a philosopher feels to understand what each color and a sky behind them mean.

every story has a small content of 'not life' things. if it doesn't have any, it will be a life, plain, simple and uninteresting. an artist tries to hide and minimize these spots and tries to make story worth living. in every story there is something that is in us too, and yet, no story can fully resemble you, it can resemble no one. that is fate of us and an art. it inspires life and is inspired from life, but it is not substitute of life.

simple way to avoid sadness is controling happiness. they are just the same.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Why did I not feel awe for AWIAL?

                It happens that we choose we do certain things because of FOMO. That is how I ended up watching All We Imagine As Light (AWIAL). And somewhere in the first half, I realized that I should not have been movie hall to watch this move. I could have waited for it to appear on OTT or even other chance encounter. I liked the movie. I like the detailing of reality in the art form. But may be because of age, I seek an escape through the stories that I interact with, a shock to my senses, an intellectual or moral puzzle that stays with me. AWIAL contains nothing of this sort. It is a story of temporary closures, shown beautifully and marketed even more successfully. Image from internet                It has its own moments of magic, a part where we must choose to believe whether a certain character is indeed what it seems to be. The movie turns there and one of the leadin...

Poems of lost winter

A shadow of loss hangs over the city, Even when it is December,  The time when we should dip the year of losses in  Illusion of good times.  But the cold nights and warm days,  Stand so apart from each others, Like strangers sharing the same room.  And, one wonders where is the winter that we all know.  Where are the days of kind light? Where are the days of aimless strolls? Where are the roads wide enough for our dreams?  Like an incomplete conversation that promised so much and  Melted in adieu, The chill in the air disperses and lurks the summer Of blinding premonitions. When we die under the unbearable sun, dear, Will you remember the poems which we left back in the last winter?

Joy

i am alone, somehow at the balance of memories and dreams, some encounters with reality practically, a room for me, a laptop, movie, food, coffee, cigarettes and loneliness to get kick out of everything.... fucking nice life! missing a mate or complete loneliness!!