To speak of place is to speak of the topical, the toponymical, and the topographical.
Fast forward 10 years, Sayma went ahead and decided to go on a 14-day hike to Mount Everest base camp, this time at almost 5000 meters, in a journey worth reminiscing.
The transience of things might be disturbing and extremely overwhelming.
Once on a particularly smothering hot day, on a CNG ride to work, I was stuck in the most heinous traffic for over two hours. Over the yelling drivers, honking cars, and incessant cursing over why the CNGs were trying to overtake the expensive cars, I was listening to my usual cycle of songs. As coincidence would have it, David Gilmour in his seraphic voice posed the question: “So, so you think you can tell/ Heaven from hell?”
It is a truth universally acknowledged that food is the undisputed sixth love language that Gary Chapman forgot to mention in his 1992 book. Or maybe it’s just the gastronome in me speaking.
I have always had a rather avoidant recoil to the aftermath of death.
It is deeply saddening that this discouragement to read fiction is coming at a time when we as a population are suffering from a crisis in empathy.
How do the monks on ice live magically and produce wonders through detachment from worldly angst?
It’s always a bit of a jolt when one is reminded of one’s age.
To speak of place is to speak of the topical, the toponymical, and the topographical.
Fast forward 10 years, Sayma went ahead and decided to go on a 14-day hike to Mount Everest base camp, this time at almost 5000 meters, in a journey worth reminiscing.
The transience of things might be disturbing and extremely overwhelming.
Once on a particularly smothering hot day, on a CNG ride to work, I was stuck in the most heinous traffic for over two hours. Over the yelling drivers, honking cars, and incessant cursing over why the CNGs were trying to overtake the expensive cars, I was listening to my usual cycle of songs. As coincidence would have it, David Gilmour in his seraphic voice posed the question: “So, so you think you can tell/ Heaven from hell?”
It is a truth universally acknowledged that food is the undisputed sixth love language that Gary Chapman forgot to mention in his 1992 book. Or maybe it’s just the gastronome in me speaking.
I have always had a rather avoidant recoil to the aftermath of death.
It is deeply saddening that this discouragement to read fiction is coming at a time when we as a population are suffering from a crisis in empathy.
How do the monks on ice live magically and produce wonders through detachment from worldly angst?
It’s always a bit of a jolt when one is reminded of one’s age.
Falling into the comfortable rhythm of a familiar form, it took scant minutes to bang out a silly poem that made me laugh and melted away all the tension, and it took me back to why I created Sehri Tales in the first place.
