The Routine

 

Taken from: https://goo.gl/images/YjLbtn

“Bye!” she called to her fifth floor neighbour with a bright smile as she stepped out of the elevator.

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The Compass

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“Now, voyager, sail thou fort to seek and find.”

-Walt Whitman

He sat at the desk in the study, scrutinizing the instrument in his hands. As a child, he used to sneak in here to play with his father’s instruments when he was away. Of all the instruments, this weathered compass had always fascinated him the most.

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The Mountains

The Mountains

The sun had just risen. There was barely enough light to make out the path through the woods. As I stepped out of the trees and made my way towards the cliff, I could see the valley spread out below me. A light mist lingered in the valley, like a blanket the night had forgotten to pull back when she left. The mountains rose out of the mist towards the sky; giant guards keeping a watch over the sleeping valley. The half-light and the mist made the mountains look ethereal; as if they were the only beings from earth who were privy to the goings-on in the heavens.

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Musings

Every artist has a muse, irrespective of gender or, indeed, the situation. So many artists and their muses have been eternalised in the books of history – Francis Bacon and George Dyer, Edouard Manet and Victorine Meurent, Pablo Picasso and Dora Maar (one among his six muses), and Salvador Dali and Gala Diakonova to name a few. Continue reading