Why was I so confused? It's all so easy.

Whoever invented donuts must be a genius, thought the little girl. Lily had two problems, losing her dad to cancer and a craving for sugar. She was only aware of one of them because daddy was just gone, not gone forever. The concept of irreversible death was a little too complicated for the 7-year-old to understand just yet. So, she set out to solve the second problem. There was a quaint little bakery a block away from her house where they made the best donut Lily had ever tasted. It was the only donut she’d ever had. Her father would take her there every Tuesday because mommy had night shifts, or so her family thought. Between a struggling real estate agent and a supermarket cashier, there wasn’t a lot of money flowing into the Martin’s coffers and a simple donut a week was often all the father could afford when it came to eating out. Though lucky for him, Lily was too young to realise that just yet, or that the only reason that the cheap, dry confectionary bread was her comfort food

"Your professor, while a very nice man, is a sneaky son of a bitch. The reason he could never get me up here to talk about the process of writing is that I'm not sure I have much to say about it that could benefit you. I still find it all very mysterious, years after I wrote my first book. And I'm not sure what it is that compels a person to play make believe, even after they're an adult. My favorite book is a collection of short stories by Raymond Carver called What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. And in the closing lines of the title story, Carver says ' I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making. Not one of us moved. Not even when the room went dark.' And I think that that's what writing is. It's listening to that beating heart. And when we hear it, it is our job to decipher it to the best of our abilities." And there it was again, the sense that humanity is being jud

 Growing up is a lot like a box of chocolates, the most sensible people to partake in the treats inside are often a group without senior citizens and children. Not that they shouldn't, but just that they have the liberty to not be as meticulous with it. But the one mind-boggling truth about growing up, one that shook my world even though it seems mundane to me now, is that one thing can have more than one uses. I thought about this as I sat there, hot, tongue-scorching tea in my hand and a cigarette in the other, and I saw the shopkeeper of a store wash his incense tray. A small, round stainless steel plate with slender half inch tall pipe like cylinders welded into it to hold the incense aloft. I saw him empty it out on the side of the road and for some reason it hit me, that tray could be used like an ashtray too. Now this isn't a jibe or a diss at any culture that considers incense hallowed, it is simply an observation of a utensil and its varied uses, stripped of its purpos

To the spirits around me, The Babbling Brook flows silent, Screaming thy name, Drowning the faint cries of the spent, Despicable as we are, Loving got us six feet under, We let our guard down, How long till the pain to fade, I wonder, Legends never die, they say, Death is not an option, But here we lay under the dirt, Pain you can't avoid, Bodies covered with the misdeeds we brought, We brew up a poisonous concoction, And filled with the fears never spoken, And call it life, just to fill a void, Grandiose, Apartheid, Genocide, Patricide, Troubling thoughts echo through my mind, All are guilty, guilty of all, For she is gone, and she left me behind, Prayers couldn't save us, Life isn't a movie, I cannot rewind, Hope wouldn't reach us, I want to run far away, run away and hide, Tears on a frozen cheek, But I won't give up, Buried under the snow, I know she'd want me to live, We weep and we weep. So, I weep and weep.

 Robert Frost, Charles Dickens, Sylvia Plath and many greats have credited their nocturnal chrono-typical behaviour for their success. Which is just a fancy way for me to justify staying up all night writing and doing other stupid shit. So my little birdies, today I'm thinking about picture books. Yay! Lately, I have been reading a book by the name of Matilda, by Roald Dahl. And I came to a somewhat of a revelation. I don't know if anyone has thought of it before, but children's books are not exactly appropriate merely for kids and preteens. I mean, sure they are the most effective when targeting them at the age group of say 7-14 years but I would say that everyone should read children's books, no matter what age they are. A friend of mine said that these books should be read for the first time as a kid for the magic of the stories to hit the spot, and adults are better off simply rereading them. But I would beg to differ here. I am 23, sadly and reading Matilda for the

 Bienvenido a mi blog, and I am feeling a bit melancholy today for all the people in the world labelled as selfish and excommunicated from society constantly. As I was sitting there, waiting for my breakfast, I realised something quite peculiar. We as a society tend to discriminate not just on race, color, language, cast, socio-economic status, but also on the basis of ideologies. Simply put, when you see someone with a different view of the world from your own you tend to judge them for everyone thinks that they are the ones in the right. Every now and then, a man comes around that looks at the world differently and you feel awed by him, mesmerized, entranced even. But that is rare, the more common situation is when you consider yourself as a very generous person, a very kind and nice person, come across a "selfish" person. Bet you a hundred bucks that you are thinking of that one person in your life, maybe more than one, but you surely have encountered someone who is so sel