Saturday 26 February 2011
Friday 25 February 2011
Sea City
Bombay meets the sea in varying landscapes, some natural and others constructed. The city meets the sea in promenades, beaches, gaothans, ports, industries and mudflats. Travel nodes, points of arrival and departure are embedded within these landscapes.
These are not merely edge conditions, they are manifestations of the desires of a city by the sea.
(writing has become tough again! uff!)
These are not merely edge conditions, they are manifestations of the desires of a city by the sea.
(writing has become tough again! uff!)
Sunday 20 February 2011
Wednesday 16 February 2011
Tuesday 15 February 2011
Sunday 13 February 2011
The walls are closing in again.
This is what it must feel like inside a prison cell.
Don’t want to talk to anyone; everyone has become somebody I knew.
I have grown bored of the lovely window that fills the emptiness of my room.
Thoughts float around the head like a whirlpool, making the neck ache and the head burst into pain.
Tears flow, too many and too often.
Sunday was a day I used to look forward to.
Lonely.
Some days I like to think about life as a drawing. One sheet of paper with lines from the very first day I lived. Lined which have grown longer, lines which fade away, lines made bolder by going over them, some lines that stand corrected, erased and carefully re-drawn.
The drawing grows as a mess.
Layers upon layers of lines of different personalities that meet each other to form different images.
I wish that I could hold an eraser in my hand and erase out some of this matrix so that only the newly drawn, recently created matrix stays.
Memory.
Memory be the root cause of my current situation.
This is what it must feel like inside a prison cell.
Don’t want to talk to anyone; everyone has become somebody I knew.
I have grown bored of the lovely window that fills the emptiness of my room.
Thoughts float around the head like a whirlpool, making the neck ache and the head burst into pain.
Tears flow, too many and too often.
Sunday was a day I used to look forward to.
Lonely.
Some days I like to think about life as a drawing. One sheet of paper with lines from the very first day I lived. Lined which have grown longer, lines which fade away, lines made bolder by going over them, some lines that stand corrected, erased and carefully re-drawn.
The drawing grows as a mess.
Layers upon layers of lines of different personalities that meet each other to form different images.
I wish that I could hold an eraser in my hand and erase out some of this matrix so that only the newly drawn, recently created matrix stays.
Memory.
Memory be the root cause of my current situation.
Thursday 10 February 2011
Wednesday 9 February 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)