Written by Jacob Ibrag ‘Why can’t you let me into your mind?’ Because if I did, you’ll know that you could never be mine. I’m no more than a cage and you were designed to fly. Photographer Unknown
Another must read in the New Year
(OUT NOW ON PRE-ORDER)
Release Date: 20th January, 2017
For most people, life is not about grasping a meaning but making a meaningful contribution. For some, life is a race against time they set out to win and not learn from, until they know better.
Time is always in a race and Obama had set out to win. He had a mother in Anna that had set the pace and a mate in Michelle that kept up. He had a history laced in Islam that threatened to hold him back and a name that didn’t sound credible in a land that should know better.
He and Michelle took on a journey through limited time and chartered space, in an untrusting period that needed more of reaction than untested ideas. Through the maze of world politics and diverse personalities who do not want to change their spots, the couple learned their failures are also victories.
Their romance with history taught them timeless lessons that come with quite demanding price tags. They made the sort of friends that looked like enemies, in their struggle to realize an increasingly vague dream that looked attainable until their search inevitably was exhausted.
They return home like they never left, like they never started their life changing journey. The world appears as unchanged as they met it and looks to be worse off but shrouded in personal victories as their complete opposites take a turn.
Student of Time
Genres: Satire, Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction
Written by Jacob Ibrag She reminisced on how her sister used to listen with intent, and how she always reacted to her stories with compassion. ‘Why couldn’t have I reciprocated? Why couldn’t I have listened to her voice when she needed it?’ Photographer Unknown
Written by Jacob Ibrag Ring finger vacant. Would it be alright if I changed that? Photographer Unknown
It is a rare thing to completely trust and to fully exhibit it too. The gratitude for such rarity is expressed inadequately mostly, but rather hypocritically thanked more than enough with all the words that is said or used. The exhibition of this sort of trust is at best unequalled. It puts the object of it in a serious strait, within the dilemma of trusting fully or just a little bit. Where trust has been clearly replaced with hate there is always a sort of lingering discomfort, ushered into the picture. It is one that cannot be fathomed by the victim until it visibly presents itself as something tangibly painful in the heart of its cruel perpetrators.
The conception of masters is mostly that of people who delight and rejoice in inflicting sufferings on their subordinates, not the chubby homely nurses who aid struggling colleagues in soothing their personal pains. This presumption is mainly based on the view of subordinates, who think all their masters’ hard responsibilities over them, with all the advantages their masters have over them, are not necessary ills, but all just utterly cruel bullying. It is obviously quite a subjective opinion not readily accepted or entertained by the masters’ own similarly bias versions.
Nothing educates a teething subordinate like that age old and seemingly overt situation of pure adversity, which would constantly lord over what it presents itself as. The overlaying setting is meant to be at the verge of a deeply sincere feeling of remorseful envy. The subordinates’ perception is utterly bias, as is their masters’, such that the perpetual atmosphere of quieted distrust soils their separate thoughts of one another. It deepens their knowledge of excusable vulgarities with an awareness that was more harmful to each of them than they realized it is.
Inscrutable old issues are rankled with reluctance to simple acceptance for offered educated civility and modern advancement, which is clearly rejoiced in subsequently.
Worn with its pride
As any true bride.
A scar from a war
Is like a lion’s roar.
Not on Everest’s peak
Must anyone do seek,
For even on all hills
Are these worlds ills.
The baby that cries,
Steals away and tries;
To be his own parent,
Where he is only sent.
That spouse out back;
Behind one Holy Ark,
Leaves the same vow
Yet remains, some how.
They; as many, are
So near and not far.
Wounds made bold
In this very world.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 8,100 times in 2013. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 7 trips to carry that many people.