Entries By yamuna
Displaying 1 To 30 Of 33 Entries
I seem to be caught in the middle of everything. Even after all this time I’ve spent throwing myself towards one side or another. I still haven’t landed anywhere. I still haven’t hit a wall. I’m still rolling about like shopping bags in a trunk. I’m unstickable. I’m unkeepable. And I never feel one way or another.Posted By Yamuna On 08.24.2012 @ 9:06 pm
The supermarket is the loveliest thing about living in a suburb. The joy of waking up, shutting up, and driving to an an office where a man in a stained silk tie spends his time telling you how replaceable you are, only to step into a cool white abyss with isles of decisions. You are the God of your refrigerator. You are the King of your pantry. You can choose between thirteen different apple juices, and for thirty seconds, you know that you have complete control.Posted By Yamuna On 11.13.2010 @ 2:35 pm
When writing, I always split myself in two. I am the writer and the reader. I defend and criticize. I am always at war with myself and when I’m done, I crumple up the empty page and try again. Someday, I hope to make peace with myself. Someday, I hope there will be peace in the world.Posted By Yamuna On 11.07.2010 @ 2:19 pm
What is a day if not filled with excitement? Life is not a line; our existence does not pivot around one frosted moment of happiness. We are not meant to wait, we are not meant to have patience. We sit here, bored and uninspired, twiddling our thumbs to the clock and we cannot break free.Posted By Yamuna On 09.30.2010 @ 7:10 pm
I like the dry rings of coasterless coffee mugs that hover crustily above my grandfather’s desk. They overlap, but only slightly, and I like to imagine him sitting there, sipping his coffee with a mouthful of ink as he contemplates life, love, and the daily crossword for twenty-five years and counting. Two sugars, no cream, and a ball-point pen, from eight-thirty to noon: his mind darts from bad memories to nine down and the itch beneath his sock.Posted By Yamuna On 09.29.2010 @ 10:41 pm
There is just something about jazz on a rainy day. The thick warble of a grandfather cello that pulls my heartstrings to the ground at five a.m. Saxophones across the world sing sugar-laced love songs and everything is blue outside. The yard is black-browed and blowsy.
Blunt as morning coffee.Posted By Yamuna On 09.27.2010 @ 9:14 pm
Nike. I don’t know why, but I think running shoes, marathons, thick brown glistening thighs of someone who has more endurance than I do. She propels herself forward through a suburb full of doughy white women, slupping slowly out of cookie cutter beings, but with eyes as sharp as the day they were born. She runs round in circles, laughing at what she could have been.Posted By Yamuna On 04.18.2010 @ 1:11 pm
In English class, we dig into the depths of a novel, highlighters, dog-earred pages, and all, prepared at any moment, to dive into the obscurest of connotations. When I think about it, all I really do like about English is the flat and icy surface of the text. When I think about it, all I really like to do is skate without worry of the underlying themes of what may or may not symbolize the crucifixion of Jesus, the superficiality of man, etc.Posted By Yamuna On 05.06.2010 @ 4:56 pm
Heavy metal chains. Blood crusted and merciless to the stubborn pull of a human arm–or dog arm, for that matter. A more overused metaphor for oppression I have never seen. The three-thousand and something books that describe these chains make me roll my eyes in Pavlovian expectancy.
For once, let us buckle ourselves to the heavy metal chains of freedom.Posted By Yamuna On 05.04.2010 @ 5:34 pm