There are times when I feel like I have been sitting in the silt and grime for longer than I remember, and my feet are heavy with the weight of the congealed mud webbed between my toes. This isn’t normal. Surely it’s not normal. The sun needs to reach out and tear a whole in the sky like 4 days past, when the light danced along my arm like little ants catching glimpses of fortune and prosperity.
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cage bird caged {Explored} on Flickr.
It seems like this image that I shot and featured on my flickr account has been seriously doing the rounds on Tumblr, according to my stats. Thank you for all your love!
We dipped our fingers into the ice cold water, fishing around to find a bean which hadn’t been opened yet. With the sleep still lingering in the puffed up creases around our eyes, and the distant memory of a breakfast which was short lived, we would sit within corner of the kitchen which only felt the presence of breath several times a year. Our fingers felt numb as we pinched the corner coat of the bean and squeezed the inner pulp out into existence. Each bean, forced to give birth and thrust into a world where it’s only purpose was to fulfil the insatiable desires of others. Behind us, the water on the stove would be bubbling in manic despair, fervently trying to cook each and every grain of rice. The air would be filled with the mingling scents of the marinating chicken and the freshly cut dill, permeating through the kitchen and out the windows. The beans were all we remembered. They came to us laden in responsibility and an expectation to deliver. When they came to us, they were blinded and cold, but when they left they were warm and naked in sprout. Such were the days of our childhood, brimming with recollections from the tiniest seeds.
Little bee, little bee, the whispers between your toes are so enchanting. Please don’t fall. Your wings might not work.
Your presence strums like the electrical static humming through the ground, bursting through the vast night as their walls shake and cave in. Wicked words scribbled upon the steps leading to enlightenment and truth. Reality can’t be faltered.
you entered my life as the purest of gifts, and to you do i return this gift. with one final leap you bound into tranquility, and lay still in my arms. you eyes lost their life with that last breath, as my tears fell on your warm fur with that dawning realisation.
despite how much time tiptoes past, the absence never dissipates nor does the length of sorrow dissolve.
Beautiful works of art…beautifully captured.
Part I of the “Islamic Influence in Sicily” photo series: During a recent two week trip to Italy, I made a 4 day getaway to Palermo, Sicily. While in Palermo, I made it a point to deprive myself from 3 things: A cell phone, the internet and public transportation. That is to say, I cut myself off from the rest of the world in a country where I did not speak the language, walked everywhere I went from sunrise to sunset and immersed myself in the Sicilian culture.
I have always been intruiged by the subtle influence Islam has had in Sicily. Photographically, I chose to display the beauty and grace of this misunderstood, misrepresented religion through the few lingering architectural structures that still stand today in Palermo. It is my intention to share a photo a day for the next two weeks.
Here is a glimpse into the Chiesa di San Giovanni degli Eremiti, a 6th century church which was later converted into a mosque during Arab presence in the 9th century. Today it stands as a church and a historical attraction open to all tourists. Enjoy.
A wonderful photography blog by Bobby Aazami. Please, take the time to muse and fall within the imagery.
This is their kingdom. And yet, it’s not.
Nineteen days of limbs reaching in length towards a unified goal of consciousness, as we collaborate our thoughts and prayers as one through these fleeting daily moments. Nineteen days of peeling off our layers and replanting the seeds within the fertile ground of our minds, as to why we are here, why we strive through our waking journeys and where it will align. Nineteen days of delicately sewing our nightly reflections into the soles of our feet, to guide us through to the next awaiting day. From the dewy dawn to the scintillating dusk, the absence of light within the lulled Winter bows gracefully down and allows for Spring to tiptoe through and embrace us all.
during reflection at dusk, I heard the most beautiful sounds. The gently to and fro of the rolling of the river, the heavy sighs of the trees against their own weight, and the birds calling out their final songs, all whilst the silence slipped inbetween
I do miss you
this skin feels like ruffled bed sheets in the dense humid morning, unsettled, coiled and drained of vitality.
the air hung thick with a dense humidy and sweat pooled into my bra, but the walk was worth my efforts
