Life

the world bleeds

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Its a beautiful day, as it is Saturday i decided to pick up the newspaper and sit under the flower tree and read the newspaper. As i flipped through the articles. I concluded we are a dying world. And someway along the way we all have either decide its okay or simply we believe in miracles or star wars. But does that somehow justify our dying morals and values?

I don’t understand how the lens don’t break when capturing the moments of extreme pain of human kind. When it captures the rubbles which were once protection against the environment. It does not break, when fathers and protectors succumb to tears. the lens does not break when mothers and shields go frantic and lose sight of their charge. the lens does not break when a child and innocence instead of learning to play is pushed to the hone their animal instinct to identify food and eat. But the lens does n0t break, the lens goes home it produces hundred thousand dollar worth of portrait. We see it, we it again and again and we feels sorry till we know the story and we don’t need to read it again. We convince ourselves that they did something to deserve to be posted in most vulnerable moments of their lives.

I go back to drinking my tea, enjoying cool breeze on my skin, the lack of sun and cloud cover. I read little more and then I just think do those people feel breeze like I do, do they stop when they smell summer flowers. Do they have summer flowers? Do they stick their nose to the window smelling rain on soil. Do they have windows? My heart does not break, tears don’t come to my eyes. This is the moment i realize why the lens don’t break. Life is a wonderful thing it builds immunities to everything that it survives, eventually, maybe a little too well. It can’t break its heart with every vicious act and neither can I.  So I put away the newspaper, and lean back marveling the evening.

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I have a lot to say but not enough words to say it. There are one too many thoughts in my head milling around like specs of dust in sunlight in and out of focus. When i was a kid i used to lay down under the window  and see sun rays filtering through the glass. There were these nearly invisible hairy lines and dust particles floating in air. thinking back they feel like few moments of pure bliss, laying on the woolen mat thoughts scattered as autumn leaves, eyes fixed on illuminated particles by day star. thinking about that is like looking back into another person’s life. Seeing through someone else’s eyes. That girl was different from me happiness was not a question it was a constant state.

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That’s what growing up means. Even though parents don’t seem too tall or big. and top-shelves are not far away but everything else grows. The world expands, possibilities, doubts, conquests everything changes.

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I don’t think i can ever lay under a window and see that anymore. time has taken away these hairy nearly invisible lines of dust with childhood, innocent ignorance, my grandfather and state of bliss that used to captivate this world.

I don’t know if my kid brother looks at the sky searching for elephant shaped clouds? At the moots of dust? At the random dandelion? Feel the silence of the day? Enjoy the sounds of the day which never seem to break the silence?

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I don’t ever seem to have time for that anymore. Its not that those things are not important anymore. I just don’t carve them anymore, i want to understand the imaginative tick of the brains i want to hear thoughts. I want to get lost in the lights of the day and under the lights which keep the darkness at bay.

i think i rather have people to share moments with then dust and floating hairy lines for companions.

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A reminder of childhood.

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This book is one of the best children-adult book i have come across. Maybe i have not read a lot, but i have never read a book like this one before.

There is nothing extraordinary about this book. There are not many profound quotes or extra terrestrial experiences. This book is very simply written at times i had confusion in understanding it it was written in such a Southern American style.(that i am sure is a only personal deficit)

To really love this book you have to remember your childhood. You must remember those unending summer vacation after which when you went to school you were a little different from before. Those summer vacations when you saw your cousins and friends. a world different from the world of school.

Scout the protagonist of the book lives in every child, little imaginative, fearless, not yet familiar to the lines of social norms, who might claim to be equal to her elder brother, but would follow the elder sibling anywhere.

Scout introduces us to the Maycomb society,  a southern state where the difference between black and white is drilled in the blood and system of the state. She listens to her teacher drone about Hitler being trash because he persecutes Jews. Being prejudiced is wrong and executing people because of it is a crime,  At the same time she witnesses the same prejudices and execution carried on the blacks. It confuses her but she does not get a straight answer.

Scout and her brother are growing with a “radical” father. they have a very close, healthy and idealistic relationship with their him. they are soon thrust into a world where being black is worse than being white trash. Which really does not make much sense to them. Jem thinks there are 4 kinds of people in the world, as his world is Maycomb county so that’s they only division he could come up with but Scout does not get it yet she just thinks everyone is same all are just “Folks”.

This book shows how children progress from believing in haunted houses to navigating differences between races. How tall tales told by a friend can make more sense than long lengthy reasons of adults. How hypocrisy and prejudices of group of women during a tea can be understood by 8 year old but never deciphered not really.

How a society can make a good stand up citizen look weak and coward in his children eyes.

This book explores the world through 8 year old eyes with scale of 12 year old and writer did a damn good job of it.

This book is our childhood.