Walk along the seashore...

Walking along the beach, I notice the moon playing hide and seek with the clouds, watched benevolently by the twinkling stars.

I see some stars twinkling brightly, flirting with the wind and clouds. Other stars content to stay in the background, shyly hiding their beauty, veiled by distance, made all the more beautiful in their obscurity.

Fuelled by the anger of the wind, I hear the sea roar and feel the waves lash out, icy droplets spraying against me.

I feel alive, my once dead heart rejuvenated by this walk along the seashore…

Hot Chocolate and Sandwiches

At college, as part of my Graphic Design course, we were presented with some words. Thinking out of the box, we had to research visuals to best represent those words.

Let's take the word, say... cancer.

Cancer.

What do you think of?

Zodiac sign?

Astrological truth or rubbish?

A personality trait?

An illness that attacks other people?

A lingering and painful illness?

Loss of hair?

Chemotherapy?

To me, the word cancer conjures up images of hot chocolate and cold sandwiches. Sneaking into the staff cafeteria to grab some food, knowing which hospital serves the best hot chocolate and which the tastiest sandwiches.

Of Iftars broken at the hospital and lonely Eids spent celebrating alone at the Oncologist ward. Staring sightlessly outside the window, watching, waiting… Looking up, hearing footsteps go past… wondering how long Eid celebrations last... one day, two days, three days... yet no visitors…

Of facing up to the horrors of chemotherapy; loss of appetite and loss of hair. Late night emergency visits to the hospital… emergency blood transfusions… Never the loss of will to live or the strength to fight.

Of despair and grief and whispered prayers, rosary beads clutched to for support and comfort.

Of tears... lots of tears. But above all, of shared smiles and laughter.

Laughter through the tears.

A long & weary battle...

Chemotherapy can be terrible. It's sometimes said that if the cancer doesn't kill you, the chemo may.

Each person reacts to chemo in a different way.

Some bear up well showing little sign of the assault.

Others suffer agonisingly. Each drop of the chemo drug entering the vein acting as soldiers fighting each cancer cell within the body.

It can be a long and weary battle not only for the patient but the care givers too.

A battle where there is no respite, no cease fire. Where each dawn brings with it a new declaration of war. Where each sunset does not bring with it a guarantee of arms laid down for the night.

A battle fought... to death.

The battle begins...

If someone asks me what it is like to live under the shadow of cancer, I'm not sure I'd be able to answer.

There are so many different hues and shades in the palette known as cancer.

The first time someone you love is diagnosed as suffering from cancer can be a terrible experience. There's disbelief. Your pretty sure the Doctors have messed up the results and are incompetent. You demand second opinions and further investigations. You are in denial.

But then comes acceptance. Accepting the fact that yes, maybe the Doctor is right, and maybe he knows what he's talking about. Maybe.

You start to Google and to read up everything you can get your hands on. Information is power. Even though the Doctor managed to get his diagnosis right, you need to verify every action he takes.

With acceptance comes a declaration of war... The battle has begun...

Eccentric me

To a certain extent, I identify with this poem. Sometimes, I think, this is what I'll end up like; eccentric.

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple
By Jenny Joseph

My favourite poem...

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes
brought
A sense of ease on such a day--
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so
wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry,--
A creature might forget to weep, who
bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's
eternity.

Sonnets from the Portuguese
Elizabeth Barret Browning

http://www.webterrace.com/browning/sonnet1.htm#xvi

The beauty of the rose...

For most of us, the beauty of the rose lies in it's perfection.
In it's submission.

No thorns to mar it's beauty with droplets of our blood. A dewy, blood red, blooming rose.

A rose that lives.

Little do we realise that the beauty of the rose lies in it's thorn.
The thorn that adds character to the rose.
The thorn that guards the rose from all but the most persistent of lovers.
Testing each lover with it's many jabs, drawing forth blood and pain.
Chasing all but the most determined away.

The rose gives true beauty when it submits.
When it gives up it's thorn and blooms for the lover that sought it.
When it envelopes its lover with it's fragrant scent, a blushing blooming beauty.

There's beauty in a withered rose.

For a rose that submits embraces death, dying a little each day, petal by petal.
Loosing its scent, unable to envelope it's lover in fragrance.
Sacrificing its life and beauty to the hand that plucked it.

Are we getting immune?

Today's papers are filled with images of children... little children. Some asleep, other’s awake, eyes wide open.

Asleep in eternal peace.

Awake to the horrors of war, displaying bloody wounds, a sign of carnage for all to see.

Dead children.

It's interesting to note how each of us reacts to those image.

Some see the papers.

See the poor, mutilated dead children.

Carry on with our meals and our lives.

Some of us loose our appetite, shed a tear. Each mouthful we eat reminding us of a family mourning the loss of an innocent child.

Nursery Rhyme Modernised

Found this in a mag. It's quiet amusing, an update if you like, of an old fashioned nursery rhyme.

Little Bo-Peep has sold her sheep
By putting them up on e-Bay
She surfed the Net
Found Easy-Jet
And flies to Spain next Friday.

Little Bo - Peep
in the 21st Century
(Judy Sleeman)

Cute :)

Blog vs. Conversation

Reminds me of something I heard on the BBC...

This wife comes home and sees her husband on the internet.

She speaks to him, but he’s like "um", "uhuh", "ah". So he's acknowledging her, but not really listening.

Exasperated, she insists he converse with her.

He insists she read his blog. After all, it saves time on face to face conversation, proves his ability to be amusing, to glorify trivial happenings, builds up his hits and proves his popularity.

She refuses.

He promptly enters in a new topic based on his wife.

She’s annoyed and decides to podast her spat with her husband.

He agrees to talk to her.

They look at each other… and mutually agree to continue working on their laptops.

Forgetful Me...

Yesterday was awful...

I left home in a rush and went to meet some of my cousins. Had a blast. Made some plans. Laughed a lot. Almost shared a few tears!

Then... at 1 AM, I discover, I'd left my keys at home. Luckily, I managed to get a spare set off someone at 3 AM, after waking a couple of people in the process.

I couldn't sleep... too much on my mind. So at 5 AM I'm sitting writing crap poetry. Still need to work on it. I'll paste it here though.

~~~*

Tired and worn out,
entered my house.

Dying for a cuppa,
some tea to unwind.

Relaxed and rejuvenated,
I look about.

Amazed to discover,
the signs of stress.

Keys in the fridge,
my used mug in the bin.

The cat on my bed,
me on her mat.

Treading on my Dreams.

Discovered, ah... rediscovered Yeats...

I would spread the cloths under your feet
But I, being poor, have only my dreams
I have spread my dreams under your feet
Tread softly because you tread on mydreams.

He wishes for the Cloth ofHeaven
W.B.Yeats

Walking in Shadows

I walk in shadows
lonelyness my compnion
solitude my friend
I seek refuge in company
only to find my selfalone once again.
I reach out a hand
and watch people
obliviousley walk past
lost in happy thoughts.

Testing! :)