A picture is worth a thousand words
Said an ad-man counting money
We forgot why
Coz he didn’t say it with pictures
So we flocked to the gram
From the tyranny of words
Words that shaped the world
And ended empires
Words that made us weep
With joy, with grief, with life
Are refugees now
In a world of colour
Posing for screenshots
And asking how much
A picture of a thousand words is worth
Note: They told me no one reads blogs any more. You have to do Instagram. I realized it does work well, and helps me write poetry which I had assumed I couldn’t. But had to write how I felt about the whole thing
I was there when you took your first breath.
I was there when you took your first fall, with a bandage and lollipop, and courage to try again.
I was there when you paced outside, helping to bring a part of you to life.
I was there at death’s door, keeping it shut a moment more.
And yet, you called my gifts poison, while others sold you water.
You thanked your Gods when I saved you, and raged at me when they failed you.
Do you deserve me, and do I deserve you?
Dedicated to doctors around the world
When does a war end? Is it when victory is declared? Is it when the last innocent dies? When the last shot is fired?
When is a disaster over? When the earth stops shaking or when the stormwinds fall quiet?
Is it when the last tear is shed? Is it even then, or is it when the edge of memory is dulled enough to lose its edge? Does it end at different times for each, relative like everything else?
I like to think it is when you rediscover hope. It can be fragile and easily broken, but it still rises through the mud and blooms, welcoming a new day, doomed though it might be.
Today, I got a 0.5 ml shot in my arm and watched my spouse get it, a small amount of liquid signifying a large amount of hope, fragile as it might be.
I was already one of the privileged, able to stay locked at home and safe with everyone I love. But fear is the same everywhere if you have something to lose, although we, the privileged might deserve a weaker claim to it.
Continue reading “10 drops”
My desk at home has plenty of space, but I realize now that a cramped cubicle meant a friend three feet away.
The day has two hours more than before, but fewer for myself.
The air is cleaner outside, but I only get to inhale my own stale breath.
I can watch a new movie without getting annoyed by a couple making out in the next row, or a kid throwing popcorn. But I realize now that I was witnessing a hundred different stories, not one.
I realize now that my daily circular commute was a window into many worlds streaming past, unlike the swiveling door I’m stuck in now.
A home isn’t a home if you can’t leave. All my life I tried to reach my destination faster, but never stopped to think if the journey was perhaps the point.