Songs of Note

• The Middle East - The darkest side-
• "And your father’s dream died that night, Just to keep that electricity on"
• Boy & Bear - mexican mavis - .
• "Cos they came out of the sunshine , Flowers nestled in their hair"
• Angus & Julia Stone - Black Crow
• "Cold thriller in disguise, Blue shadows stitched to her toes"
• Foals - Spanish sahara-
• "Now the waves, they drag you down, Carry you to broken ground, Though I'll find you in the sand, Wipe you clean with dirty hands "
• Tin Sparrow - the boat -

Vintage Stall photography - All in the days work

"All in the days work"

Tea leaf philosophies: The Great Longing

"I sit here between my brother the mountain and my sister the sea. We three are one in loneliness, and the love that binds us together is deep and strong and strange"

K.Gibran - The Madman

The Drawing Board: Breathing in the full moon

Breathing in the full moon

Dancing on the edge

Hoping soon the sun would rise and

Empty out her head

vintage stall photography - Rust

 

  

Tea leaf Philosophies: An explosion of Birds - Dawn

An explosion of birds

dawn

sun strokes the walls

an old man leaves the casino

a young man reading pauses

on the path to the garden.

J.morrison

The Story Board: The beginning

Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

             who i am you might wonder, in your boredom, as you stumbled across my blog. well i am no one particular. i am just your average Joe, a fellow child, an old soul. currently I am a poor student.

 when you become a Student, life is fun, carefree, ridiculous, filled with lost inhibition, endless parties and lack of responsibilities. The independence is liberating and exhilarating..... Until you run out of money and have to write a thesis, a thesis your future career hangs on.... the future career your family a waiting for and your dad has been slaving for. A thesis you have to get a top marks in, just to make it to the next level. so the combination of intense work load on a small budget has forced me to spend a lot of time on a computer procrastinating. sifting through the Internet and my playing with my own thoughts. last Wednesday i mixed the two together and ...... (drum roll)......................................... TA DA ......welcome to WHISPERS UNDER A WILLOW

 i am bored and looking for distractions. for as long as i can remember i have loved creative writing. i just discovered a friend has been writing a blog for the last five years. it is amazing, he is amazing. and it inspired me to do the same. to open up my mind and allow people in to dawdle through my memories and philosophies, and to look upon the scenery of my distorted reality and warped imagery.

So here I shall escape the mundane and share my world with you. 

The Drawing Board: Restless in Wanting Patiently Waiting

ది హుంబ్లె లవర్

The Drawing Board: Empty eyes

"Empty eyes, broken homes, fallen souls, will of stone"

The Drawing Board: Merely Just a Peasent

 I'm fascinated by the simplicity of faces. I'm intrigued by how eyes convey so much feeling, story, torture, pain, regain.. I'm interested in how you can perfectly fit an eye between the two eyes, and how the for most people, the widest part of your nose is the same size as your eyes. the edge of the mouth line up with the center of your eyes. when you study a face, you realise how calculated it is, everything purposly placed, a beautiful balance. centered around the eyes, the windows to your soul.

the eyes are our past memories entwined with are future mysterys.

they hold our deamons and our goals side by side.

in them we hold  tear and a smile.

అ చైల్డ్ లాస్ట్ ఇన్ వార్ పేయస్ బె విత్ యు వెన్ మై గాడ్ కమేస్

Tea leaf Philosophies: J. Morrisons 2nd love

As time will come to show, i love the concept of love, especially the way people try to express it. through my blog i will scatter beautiful, words, lyrics, sonnets, poems and stories inspired by love or the lack of it. for after all we are only human.

I am troubled

Immeasurable

By your eyes

I am struck

By the feather

Of your soft reply

The sound of glass

Speaks quick

Disdain

And hides

What your eyes

Fight to explain

J. Morrison

Tea leaf Philosophies: Rose Tinted Nation

We may have won the battle, but they never fought the war.

__________________________________

______________________

_________

___

we are living in a rose tinted nation,

trying to live up to our own declarations

avoiding participation in our own rehabilitation

_____________

yet we still choose depression as our safety station

we are surrounded by distorted imagery

illusions and delusions of how we ought to be

fighting for democracy and unrealistic dreams of equality

__________

yet racism still a well known and preached philosophy

we place our goals just within our reach

we use empty books to educate and teach

we memorise our perfect speech, tick the box 'donate to aid relief'

__________

yet obesity is our number one retreat

we follow the rules on how to behave

make notes of what and to whom we gave

pray to god and you will be saved, all our sins he forgave

__________

yet a mortgage pays for the tombstone on our grave

our eyes have closed in this rose tinted nation

as the economy rose we sacrificed our identification

lost our salvation in the walls of our self built concentration

___________

and we pity them with their lack of complication

Tea leaf Philosophies: The Fox in the Snow

... the fox looked at his shadow at sunrise and said, "i will have a camel for lunch today." And all morning he went about looking for his camels. But at noon he saw his shadow again  and he said, "A mouse will do."

Kahil Gibran

The Drawing Board: Transition - out of the shadows

"in this series Transitions, i'm trying to capture moments and expressions. 

Revealing the raw emotions, fears, hopes and beliefs of individuals before the mask is replaced

this picture below, 'Out of the Shadows' I'm trying to convey that moment of hesitation, just before someone steps into the light. the transition from the shadows into the light. the girls held the weight of the world on her sholders, yet she is lifting her head up. although meek and mild, she has a will of stone, strength, dignity, self respect emerging. her lips help tight, determined, fighting her fear. her eyes are sad, yet wide, taking in the old surrounding, in a new light. she is a passive fighter. a new surivior. she is coming out of the shadows. 

"leant against the wall, i watched the world pass me by"

The Story Board: The Flower and the Sun

The flower and sun,
the song they never sung,
the story they begun.

Once upon a time, in a distant memory, there lived a little bud. Her life was filled with beautiful things, and her mind was filled with beautiful lyrics. But yet she was not full.

She spent her days blowing in the breeze, teasing grasshoppers through the shadows in the meadow. One day she noticed the sun peeping through the leave of the willow trees, she held out her hand and as the sun fell into her palm the little bud over flowed with light. The light slip-sloped over her brim, while she danced with the sun in the breeze.

From that night the sun could no longer sleep, he no longer longed for his dreams, instead he wished he could leave the night, and return to the meadow, under the willow tree, to find the bud, because never before had he met a bud who he could dance with all day with such effortless ease.

So the next day the sun hurried back to the moment, back with the breeze, and the bud rushed out from the shadows to play with the sun. and  they sung and they danced, and the skipped and the laughed and they held hand in grass, they played and played all day...
but at the end of the day, the sun faded away.
And the little bud shivered with cold, her leaves were damp and drooped from the weight of the pouring, spilt light from the sun. as the monotonous tide of the night tapped at her door, she began to feel a deep hollow pain... for the bud did not realize the real effects that the sun had...

For the bud was sheltered, she was not used to being out from the shadows, out in the open, and her skin was fair and pure, and unbeknownst to the sun or the flower, when a bud exposes its soul to the sun for too long without caution, it will be burnt, and when a bud opens it heart to be filled with light, if it is not careful, it will be drowned. And the buds heart was so heavy, so laden down with light, it hurt.
And oh how her soul burned,
it seared with such intensity, the pain was unbearable. And in that moment of pain, the flower grew angry at the sun for hurting her. And she wished she were no longer a bud, but rather a stone. Because a stone can not be burnt by the sun, and a stones heart can not be  filled with light. Light will never overflow out of a stone. And if light can not fill a stone,  then the stone can not be drained of light either, or can it become hollow, and emptied.

 For in the heart of a stone, lies a stone, and in that stone, lies a heart made of stone.

The next day the sun hurried back to his bud under the willow tree, he peeped and peered through the leaves, he flitted of floated across the scattered twigs... but alas, he could not find his bud. For she was hiding in the shadows,
 and shooting him with her silence.

For days and days he returned and spent all day spying through the leaves. Eventually over time, through snippet on the breeze and whispers in the seas, he heard how he has hurt the little bud. How his tantalizing sunrays had indirectly burnt her, scarred her purity. And he was sad. And he was mad. He hated himself, because he did  not know how to go  back in time. He was angry that he didn’t know how vulnerable a bud is when it is fully open out of the shadows, and how easily their petals can be torn away by the wind, and how delicate they are under their skin, so delicate and frail, so easily broken, so difficult to repair.  And he became bitter, for how was he to know that the bud was so fragile.
He was angry because she took his breath away, and never gave it back, and now he was living in a still world, with no breeze,
he no longer could gasp at the moon, sigh at the moon, or sing songs with happy melodies. Now is songs were sad, they were filled with broken lyrics and notes purposely off key. Sometime he needed to breathe so badly he would tear a little hole in his soul, just to feel a moment of a breath. A moment of escape. A moment of release. And sometimes he was so angry at his rays, that he would make them bleed. And he hoped the droplets would fall through the leaves into her hand, and then she would understand. And then she would see what she had done to him. But she didnt.
 Because she was facing the wall. Watching the moss grow.
 sometime she heard the drops, but she told her self it was just the rain, because she wasnt ready to turn away from the wall, and face the pain, to regain and reclaim her vunerability,she was scared to turn around and and find herself looking her reflection, and seeingshe was insane, or even worse, even more terrified  that she would see that she was sane. That the missing she felt was real and not a delusion, that love she tried forgot was real and not a distortion. And that the sun she wanted to forgive was real, and not an illusion. 

And the years past, and the seasons changed. And the swallows left and came back again.

 the sun still did not dream at night. And he was still wounded. And his drops still fell. And in the droplets, were reflections of solitude and broken beauty. And in the puddles was the essence of loniless,. And they still, Still distortion of light,. They highlighted and haunted and clothed the hills and the skies and the willow trees. Always just beyond the shadows. always just beyond the lens. always just out of reach from the hand.

And the bud found comfort in the moss. For he was gentle and kind. But over the years, she could not help but notice that the moss was flat, it was slow and the moss didn’t dance on her palm and she held this against the moss. In her secret dreams she wished the moss would burn her. Just a little. Just enough  just to convince her the pain she felt that day, was not unique to the sun. That the warmth from that day, was not exclusive to the sun. that the love she gained, was not owned by the sun. But alas, the moss could only kiss her forehead open to the door, and show her the path to a comfortable life.
So The bud walked out the door, and turned the other way.

she entered the world with a smile. And she spent her days strolling through the trees, watching the sky through puddles, standing on hills in the distance. capturing moments like the stillness of willow trees in the mist, or the moment the wind catches a cloud pulls it up in lust. And
the bud danced in the dusk and sang to the dawn.
She hung the images of the world in the hallway of her mind, and they filled her life with beautiful things, and they filled her mind with beautiful lyrics.   

but yet she was not full

And she thought that although she had lost the sun and least she had found her path. And she followed her path, capturing lost moments, and collecting trinkclets from the tide. she closed her eyes and let the wind guide her. On her path she unknowingly followed the droplets from the sun, and she unknowlingly slowly picked them up, and put them back together again. slowly unknowing they were guiding her back home again. 

the stillness of a willow tree in the mist

Tea leaf Philosophies: long walk home

and she stood over the stream, and the only sound she heard was the roar of anticipation... like the roar of the ocean on a lonely night. Deafening yet still unable to drown out the silence of a wounded heart.