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--&gt;
&lt;/style&gt;  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;What &lt;i&gt;is&lt;/i&gt; paradise like? The most common notion is of a beautiful place, with lush greens, pristine blue skies, splendid landscapes, breath-taking scenery, gorgeous fields of flowers, shimmering riches and gold and so much more for the eyes and soul to feast on. &amp;nbsp;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;A paradise is a genuinely perfect existence. That thought makes life fade away in comparison. The life we live – which is ugly and beautiful, sweet but sour, unfair and unkind but also remarkable and entertaining. Life is black and white, and all the colors of the rainbow.&amp;nbsp; It is absolutely everything we have, so why do we resent it?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;Can we reach a state of paradise in our lives, or is that just an illusion? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;Consider for a second that paradise is nowhere. Paradise is what you feel at a certain point in time. You can't go around looking for it as a place that exists somewhere in specific. Paradise is more something you feel at a certain time. It's in that moment.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;Can we aim for a mental paradise? The state of mind to achieve, where we are not bound by frustrations, idiosyncrasies, self-made limitations, or even shattered dreams. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we don't immediately say no &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we take a second before we speak our mind &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we look at people a tad different&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we look beyond the obvious&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we look at them with an unbiased eye; no judging, no stereotyping &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we know when to leave&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we know when to say little and when not to say anything at all&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we realize there is so much more beneath the dull surface &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we nudge that nagging feeling that scares us, and do it anyway&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we don’t fall prisoners to the past&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we silence the raging daemons in our heads&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;i&gt;If we are open&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;There is a whole new world; waiting for us to experience. Full of new opportunities, and new dimensions to explore and learn from - about ourselves, about life, about others. There are new venues to take and endless possibilities, and also new mistakes and new interests to pursue. Every single new experience, even if small or trivial, adds meaning and depth to our own life. &lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;If nothing else, it might lead us to recognize the fine line between living and being alive.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;i&gt;~ misteca&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing"&gt;Inspired by these lyrics from the song &lt;a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PT3_iunhi74"&gt;Beached, by Orbital&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;Trust me&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;It's Paradise&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;This is where the hungry come to feed&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;For mine is a generation that circles the globe&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;in search of something we haven't tried before&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;so never refuse an invitation&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;never resist the unfamiliar&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;never fail to be polite&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;and never outstay your welcome&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;just keep your mind open and&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;suck in the experience&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;and if it hurts&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;you know what ... &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Verdana&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 10pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Calibri&amp;quot;,&amp;quot;sans-serif&amp;quot;; font-size: 11pt;"&gt;it's probably worth it&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-1403590709307745999?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=NQgnyTAKgN4:DiAuWRoKbBo:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=NQgnyTAKgN4:DiAuWRoKbBo:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/NQgnyTAKgN4" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/1403590709307745999/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2010/08/on-paradise.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/1403590709307745999?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/1403590709307745999?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/NQgnyTAKgN4/on-paradise.html" title="On Paradise" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2010/08/on-paradise.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DEYHR3czcCp7ImA9Wx5REEU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-8895051882894466597</id><published>2010-08-18T01:02:00.000+02:00</published><updated>2010-08-18T01:02:16.988+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-08-18T01:02:16.988+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="l'il voice writes" /><title>Summer Lovin'</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;The butterflies in the room were captivated by the presence of &lt;i&gt;Moon. &lt;/i&gt;They&lt;i&gt; &lt;/i&gt;fluttered in awe, reflecting&lt;i&gt; &lt;/i&gt;her illuminating light off their colored wings. Their graceful movement spread a delicate scent of Jasmine across the room. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;Deeply absorbed in thought, &lt;i&gt;Moon &lt;/i&gt;was never oblivious to the sweet sighs that followed wherever she went. The Cleopatra of &lt;i&gt;Elements, s&lt;/i&gt;he knew how to impress an audience. She looked stunning in a full-length beaded gown that flattered her voluptuous, left-handed sea shell figure. Instead of casting her mesmerizing smile, &lt;i&gt;Moon&lt;/i&gt; tiptoed quietly and sat next to &lt;i&gt;Earth&lt;/i&gt; and &lt;i&gt;Heat&lt;/i&gt;. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;They knew she was consumed with worry. Every thought racing though &lt;i&gt;Moon&lt;/i&gt;’s mind was scented with Jasmine. The room was quickly filling with her gorgeous sweet aroma. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;In his rough, husky voice, &lt;i&gt;Heat&lt;/i&gt; interrupted the fragrant silence. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;‘&lt;i&gt;I can’t thank you enough for coming on such short notice. We’ve all been extremely concerned. It’s been over a week and Sun has not fully recovered. I’m afraid his body is still too weak. Nighttime&lt;/i&gt;, &lt;i&gt;this time of year&lt;/i&gt;, &lt;i&gt;isn’t long enough for him to regain his strength and energy.’&lt;/i&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;Moon &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;was not able to contain herself&lt;i&gt;.&lt;/i&gt; &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;‘&lt;i&gt;My radiance&lt;/i&gt; &lt;i&gt;is failing me. I cannot believe it is not sufficient for my precious Sun. This is all because of the humans and their man-made global warming crisis!’&lt;/i&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;‘&lt;i&gt;I do admit I’m exhausted but please relax’.&lt;/i&gt; &lt;i&gt;Sun &lt;/i&gt;smiled confidently to the &lt;i&gt;Elements&lt;/i&gt; as his&lt;i&gt; &lt;/i&gt;furry hair glistened in shades of crimson and gold. ‘&lt;i&gt;This is a transition phase. I’m just adapting to the massive increase of global heat waves.&lt;/i&gt;’ Only able to relax when he’s bent, &lt;i&gt;Sun&lt;/i&gt; resembled the figurine of a dancing ballerina.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;There was a sound at the door. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;Sashaying flamboyantly into the elegant room, &lt;i&gt;Snow&lt;/i&gt; faced her family of Elements for the first time since February. She glistened from &lt;i&gt;Sun&lt;/i&gt;’s rays that reflected on her translucent, rectangular surface. No one had expected her arrival to Summer Seminar, where her grainy sand-like skin shrivels as she loses moistness. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;She hopped like a baby kangaroo into the velvet lap of chocolate brown &lt;i&gt;Earth&lt;/i&gt;. With jazz-like soothing sound of rainfall, she whispered ‘I miss you’. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;Earth&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt; closed his almond colored eyes. He rejoiced in the serenity of the moment and held onto &lt;i&gt;Snow, &lt;/i&gt;breathing in her tenderness. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;Snow &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;put on her serious face and spoke to&lt;i&gt; Sun. ‘My moisture can cool you. I want to do this. Please let me help you.’&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;‘&lt;i&gt;But my sweet little doll! How can I let you dry out and miss a winter or two? &lt;/i&gt;’ &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;‘You shine our days. How can we be without your bright rays of hope. I'll gladly miss all my winters.’ &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;Moon somersaulted to Snow, and hugged her tight. For the past five years, Snow had only brief encounters with Earth. It yearned to stay in his arms for a whole season of passion.&amp;nbsp;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;‘You are incredible Snow! Please save my Sun’. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;Intertwining its tiny fingers with Earth’s, &lt;i&gt;Snow &lt;/i&gt;began to rub its moisture into &lt;i&gt;Sun&lt;/i&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt; &lt;i&gt;Snow &lt;/i&gt;would get a summer full of lovin’ with Earth.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;Love is always the cure. Nothing beats Summer Lovin!&amp;nbsp;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;~ misteca&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-8895051882894466597?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=ovHMINH7QrI:BXOYQmbpE4o:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=ovHMINH7QrI:BXOYQmbpE4o:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/ovHMINH7QrI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/8895051882894466597/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2010/08/summer-lovin.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/8895051882894466597?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/8895051882894466597?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/ovHMINH7QrI/summer-lovin.html" title="Summer Lovin'" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2010/08/summer-lovin.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0UARHk5cCp7ImA9WxFbGEs.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-9047223701520999249</id><published>2010-07-11T20:27:00.000+03:00</published><updated>2010-07-11T20:27:25.728+03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2010-07-11T20:27:25.728+03:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Vibes" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><title>Of Silence</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;I am wrapped in echoes of silence. Renowned as tranquil, in this particular moment the sound of silence is deafening. I attempt to escape but I am numb. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;I close my heavy eyes trying to deceive my ears in earnest. If I cannot see, then perhaps this piercing loudness can wither away. I sigh. Like slow morning sunshine seeps into a room, I breathe in all the colors of life.&amp;nbsp; Though when I open my eyes, I see the colors blend into hues of black and white. Darkness has become my only sun. I wonder how can sunshine make me burn inside.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;Suddenly a curtain descends in front of my eyes. It traps all of my senses. A wave of emotions crashes into me. I’m shattered into a million little pieces. Instinctively, I look around. Everything appears the same. Even though I realize it is all so different. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;What I see in front of me is nothing I want to embrace. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;I’m paralyzed.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;Small incoherent thoughts begin to cloud my head. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;What is this? &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;Why is this? &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;Why me? &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;Why now?&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;Why again? &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;When will it go away?&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;There’s a crack in my soul; it tugs at me in all the wrong places. I can feel the void. The taste of bitterness contains me. I’m drowning. My broken soul cannot drift to the distant shore of hope.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;Irony of ironies is how emptiness can hurt, how nothingness can cause pain. &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;A cage of sadness traps my tears in words I cannot say.&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;I scream in silence.&amp;nbsp;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;Never thought your love would take me here&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;Never thought you’d feel you must leave&lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;Never thought your love would burn me &lt;o:p&gt;&lt;/o:p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;Never thought I’d lose the one thing I truly believe&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt;~ &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"&gt;misteca&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: small;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="line-height: 115%;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-9047223701520999249?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=R0ZZI5Jb6r0:mB-_0Bc8wB0:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=R0ZZI5Jb6r0:mB-_0Bc8wB0:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/R0ZZI5Jb6r0" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/9047223701520999249/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2010/07/of-silence.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/9047223701520999249?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/9047223701520999249?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/R0ZZI5Jb6r0/of-silence.html" title="Of Silence" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2010/07/of-silence.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0ECRXw8eip7ImA9WxNREUU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-2011589483125408831</id><published>2009-09-06T00:27:00.000+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-06T00:27:44.272+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-09-06T00:27:44.272+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mood" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Vibes" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Poems" /><title>Heart of Gold</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;If you sit back and remember&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;times that were lenient and tough,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;You’ll find that the reality in your heart now&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Was an old dream you were thinking of.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;You’ll find that no matter how lonely you are inside&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Your heart is still filled with love&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;and full of light through all these years&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;while your surface has dulled above.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;When you think that all is gone,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;there’s still another side&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;made up of nice feelings and emotions&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;that your beauty has managed to hide.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;But have a look deep inside of you,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;and though your looks may have gone cold&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;the inner sides are full of smiles,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;and warmed with your heart of gold.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;What you gained through memories of pain&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;is through your heart a tear,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&amp;amp; as you draw in your last breath,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;you cool it to calm your fears.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;You’re not alone, although many things you had are gone&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Rubbed off from your surface &amp;amp; cheaply sold&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Growing up is what it’s called. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;No one knows that behind this obvious pain,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&amp;amp; dreams that calmly drove you insane,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;There are still valuable remains &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Of your broken heart of gold. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"&gt;~ misteca&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;"Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all." ~ &lt;a href="http://thinkexist.com/quotes/emily_dickinson/"&gt;Emily Dickinson&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-2011589483125408831?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=684uIzDJr7I:xamj_mKL1i0:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=684uIzDJr7I:xamj_mKL1i0:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/684uIzDJr7I" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/2011589483125408831/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/09/heart-of-gold.html#comment-form" title="1 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2011589483125408831?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2011589483125408831?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/684uIzDJr7I/heart-of-gold.html" title="Heart of Gold" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>1</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/09/heart-of-gold.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0QFQHk-cSp7ImA9WxNREE8.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-7316784094478420640</id><published>2009-09-04T03:55:00.000+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-04T03:55:11.759+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-09-04T03:55:11.759+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mood" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Poems" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Black" /><title>Tell Me</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how high can you&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;fly with broken wings&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how long can you&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;survive a broken heart &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how many tears &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;can drown away your sorrow&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how can you breathe&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;with so much emptiness inside &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how can your dawn rise&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;amidst the darkness around you &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me why the sunshine&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;makes you burn inside&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me is there an ocean deep&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;enough to bury your pain &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how can you smile&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;when your spirit is barely alive&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how can your broken soul&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;drift to the shore of hope &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how can you love&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;when you lost faith in your heart&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how can you trust&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;with shadows of doubt all around you&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me how can you be strong&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;on these shattered grounds &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Tell me what good is tomorrow&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;when you can’t keep up with today&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;~ &lt;/em&gt;misteca&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;I wrote this back in school - a younger, less burdened, hopefully just as passionate me&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-7316784094478420640?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=SKLIgo74bQk:p4b69L_uF2E:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=SKLIgo74bQk:p4b69L_uF2E:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/SKLIgo74bQk" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/7316784094478420640/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/09/tell-me.html#comment-form" title="1 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/7316784094478420640?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/7316784094478420640?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/SKLIgo74bQk/tell-me.html" title="Tell Me" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>1</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/09/tell-me.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;Dk8NSH0ycCp7ImA9WxNSGU4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-2480235945481390479</id><published>2009-09-03T01:41:00.000+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-03T01:41:39.398+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-09-03T01:41:39.398+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="my articles" /><title>On Painted Faces</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;We state as a matter of fact that we can never really know someone. It’s only when it dawns on you that you’re included in the context of that phrase – as the party that doesn’t really know – that you tend to become more attentive. Suddenly the phrase becomes an eye-opener.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Everyone wears a mask at one point in their lives. It’s inevitable. Some people wear masks year round. There’s the perfectionist, the know-it-all, the life of the party dude who craves attention, and the universally famous back-stabbing jerk. A classic mask is I’m-a-nice-guy, and the most clichéd one is I’m-a-soft-and-delicate girl.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Some masks are more subtle though. Kids become irresistibly charming when they set their minds on getting something they want, or they can be a real pain and cry non-stop. We often put a fake smile on our faces and act like nothing is wrong. We hide behind a concerned face, and make people believe we’re listening.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Why do we wear those masks?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Why is it difficult for us to say what we want?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Why can’t we just be?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Are the masks imposed on us?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;The most common explanation for wearing masks is self protection. We sense the need for shelter. Masks help us build our own defenses. They can give us power, or at least the illusion of power, at times when we feel powerless. Even an angry voice can elicit a tough exterior. Sometimes we wear a mask to shield ourselves from getting hurt. We’ve been proverbially attacked countless times from acts of &lt;em&gt;asfana&lt;/em&gt;. (&lt;em&gt;asfana is Egyptian slang to mean betrayal/back-stabbing&lt;/em&gt;)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;We’re born into the world naked and exposed, totally vulnerable and dependent on people around us. Masks change appearances and disguise our weaknesses. With our mask, we forge a display of confidence. We claim to master skills to handle things, we don’t need anyone and we don’t need any help. We appear self reliant and we feel safe.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;We also wear masks to hide flaws that embarrass us, and imperfections we’re ashamed of. We paint ourselves a prettier face to the world, covering up the true us out of fear. We fear rejection and we fear someone will make fun of us for what we believe, what we think or how we feel. We try to flaunt what we do not possess. We desperately try to fit in. The need to belong exerts pressure on us. We’re struggling with insecurities.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;A mask gives us an opportunity to become something more attractive. We pretend to be a make-believe version of our character, one with the right attitude and intellect. We relish the occasion to impress; especially on a crowd whose approval we yearn for. We like to think the mask is our truth; we rejoice in the evanescent glee a mask affords us.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Some people wear masks to hide from themselves. They can never show their true side to anyone. From experiencing a history of withheld warmth and love, a bankruptcy of thoughts and feelings is their prominent characteristic. They have grown up to harbor negative beliefs about themselves, such as ‘I’m not good enough’, ‘I’m stupid’, ‘I’m ugly’ or ‘I’m a failure’. They keep their engraved beliefs hidden because they don't want anyone to know. They build an emotional barrier. They make sure that nothing about them sparks interest in others to get to know them. They try to fade and become just another face in the crowd.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Then there are the affairs of the heart with our significant other. Many people feel compelled to wear masks with their partners. They cannot risk the loss and break up. They recall a few times when they dared to say the truth, and were left - much too often - with an inane remark or a moment of awkward silence, and an immediate regret that they had not kept their mouths shut.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Girls and guys alike often create an image of themselves that is far from the person they actually are. They put on a mask that shows their partner a different face, with an exceptional personality altogether. They feign interests. They play a part they dislike only to please and keep their partner. Their actions and words is all pretense. It may be out of love, but when it shapes the relationship it’s no longer sincere. Love is not faking your identity for someone. You’re trapped inside the mask. Some of us burn out from the effort of trying to maintain a façade. We end up missing out on real relationships. They either fall in love with the mask, or we don't let them get close enough to see the real person hidden beneath the mask.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;It’s easy to get lost amid a closet-full of masks. Where is the real us? For some of us the reality is the mask. It’s our persona. For others, the reality lies underneath. They prefer to keep it buried.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Which scenario is worse? Losing ourselves to the mask or not being able to cast it away? The bittersweet truth is that there may come a time when we cannot &lt;a href="http://www.quotegarden.com/be-self.html"&gt;remove a mask without removing some of our own skin&lt;/a&gt;. (~ &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;André Berthiaume, Contretemps)&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-2480235945481390479?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=PS3r3SHEknI:f41J5kcOnP0:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=PS3r3SHEknI:f41J5kcOnP0:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/PS3r3SHEknI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/2480235945481390479/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/09/on-painted-faces.html#comment-form" title="1 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2480235945481390479?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2480235945481390479?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/PS3r3SHEknI/on-painted-faces.html" title="On Painted Faces" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>1</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/09/on-painted-faces.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0cBQnk7eyp7ImA9WxNSGU4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-4685030144527327013</id><published>2009-08-31T03:24:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2009-09-03T01:44:13.703+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-09-03T01:44:13.703+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="my articles" /><title>A Million Little Things II</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt;inspired by previous &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;a href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/million-little-things.html"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt;post&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;One&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;truth in the middle of everything else shaded; a world full of shades of grey amidst all that black and white. Friendship will never be overrated.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Friends. We make them. We literally do that. We choose who we want to be friends with. We even decide how close and intimate we want this friendship to be. Friends are our own choice. There’s something about freedom of choice here that just speaks volumes. Not in a cliché kind of way, but in a sense that is amazingly good, heartwarming and comforting. We choose our friends.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Remember your school days? The years of growing pains. We were just a little bunch of happy-go-merry kids, without a care in the world. We had our braids, hideous glasses, embarrassing braces, cute dimples, ridiculous crushes and a collection of bizarre toys and games, among other childish things. In our minds, we had everything we needed. I am not exaggerating - everything. Not because of our young innocent minds believing that’s all we need, but because we had our very own BFF. Best Friend Forever. That one person we spend every waking moment of the day in school with. We’d sit together in class, eat lunch together from almost identical lunchboxes, play every sport together, join the same extracurricular clubs, share stories and gossip, talk, smile, laugh, cry, jump and scream together. We’d hang out at each other’s places every chance we got. We know the inside of our BFF’s house just as we did our own. Most of our memories in school revolve around our BFF. We were inseparable. We did everything together. We made promises we believed we could keep, in spite of anything, in the face of everything. We promised to always be best friends forever.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;And some of us did. Some of us remain friends. I do know of people, who have friends they’ve known since kindergarten, or school, friends they grew up together with as neighbours, or as close family friends. I myself am still friends with a few from school. That friendship is priceless to say the least - friends from the good old days. The ones who know you better in some ways than you know yourself. Friends who would tell you what you won’t tell yourself. Friends who give you the proverbial shoulder to cry on, and are the ones you want to share and celebrate every insignificant piece of news you have with first. You can count on them to be there for you at all times, be it happy, delightful, miserable or sad. They are exceptionally precious friends. You can go days and weeks not speaking, but one casual phone call or SMS or Facebook poke, it more than makes your day. It has meanings only the two of you understand. An old song on the radio or on TV can flood you with warm memories that you’ve forgotten, and you immediately appreciate the small reminder with a smile on your face. On instinct you text message your friend about it, or bring it up the next time you talk. You cherish those friends unconscious of how they are your connection to life – ‘&lt;a href="http://thinkexist.com/quotation/a-good-friend-is-a-connection-to-life-a-tie-to/348586.html"&gt;a tie to your past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world&lt;/a&gt;’.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Except that we didn’t all keep our promise. Some BFFs ended when school was over or during the first years in college. Occasionally when you remember a certain BFF, it still takes you by surprise that you’ve lost touch and haven’t spoken or seen each other in years. No one is to blame. Why that happens has been under enormous speculation worldwide. Will it suffice to say it’s a side effect in our grand journey through life?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Life takes you places. You grow. You move. You live and learn, and almost always you inevitably end up leaving something behind. We don’t intentionally leave our friends. Not unless it’s reached a point beyond reconciliation. That happens in rare occasions. Not just a conflict of interest, it’s a combination of miscommunication, failure to understand, saying the wrong things, or worse not saying anything, growing apart, getting caught up in one thing or another. It’s simple in spite of all those complexities. We change. Somewhere along the line, we get consumed and drawn deeper in this massive spider web we call life. All the paths we take; the crossroads we face, the obstacles and the stepping stones. All the distractions, reactions and interactions; life has plenty.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Going through college and later into the real world, we start to work, build our careers and make something of ourselves. We go through new experiences, from our exposure in the professional world, the personal lives we lead, and the interests we pursue. We like to think we mature; we grow wiser, and know so much about so much. But the minute we stop learning is the minute we grow old. I heard somewhere that we have to make mistakes to actually figure out what is right. Some of those mistakes tend to be painful though, which is unpleasant and downright nasty. Except that there is a good side in there, in terms of friendship I mean. These mistakes eventually let you know and discover things about yourself, who you are, who’s a real friend, and who’s a fake.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;Fake ones you can totally forget about and eliminate from your life, or limit your relation with depending on whether you can actually avoid encounters with them. It’s not always ok to lose touch; some friends are worth second chances. They deserve that you overcome your stubbornness, and find common grounds to speak again. What you’ve shared matters. Other times you realize you’ve alienated a few for no good reason. It’s not always possible to mend those. You’re responsible and guilty under every possible nonexistent law of friendship. Another thing you learn is that in a phenomenal way, we make new friends all the time. We have new friends to be ourselves with, to share the ups and downs in our current lives with, and make new memories together. We trust them, and we confide in them. In doing so, we’re well aware that a few of our new friends can in actual fact blackmail us for everything we’re worth!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;There’s a feeling writers occasionally experience, how difficult an article or a story or a blog becomes when they have nothing to say, yet everything to say. No matter how much you want to say and do eventually articulate into words of depth and insight, there’s a nagging feeling that you still haven’t actually said anything at all. You haven’t expressed your thoughts and the point you’re trying to make. Reading this quote made me realize why I’m feeling this way for this article in particular; ‘&lt;a href="http://www.quotegarden.com/best-friends.html"&gt;Friendship is not a big thing. It’s a million little things&lt;/a&gt;’.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;A million little things.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Trebuchet MS&amp;quot;, sans-serif;"&gt;A friend understands - even better - shares and delights in your passions, especially when that passion is something as simple but nevertheless deliciously exquisite as coffee. That’s not a big thing. It’s special maybe, but in reality, it’s a million little things.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-4685030144527327013?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=Zt5jUP0FqdI:sbR9g4NUW4Q:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=Zt5jUP0FqdI:sbR9g4NUW4Q:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/Zt5jUP0FqdI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/4685030144527327013/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/08/million-little-things-ii.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/4685030144527327013?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/4685030144527327013?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/Zt5jUP0FqdI/million-little-things-ii.html" title="A Million Little Things II" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/08/million-little-things-ii.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkYMRH88eSp7ImA9WxJbEkw.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-662393986239713848</id><published>2009-07-22T00:45:00.005+03:00</published><updated>2009-07-22T01:09:45.171+03:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-07-22T01:09:45.171+03:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><title>Trick is to keep breathing</title><content type="html">&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Life hands us ironies by the dozen. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Let me humor you with this one; why is breathing not in our own hands to function or control? It is essential to our being, a crucial activity to us remaining alive but usually we're not aware of our breathing. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Breathing is a continuous spontaneous act.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;We are all breathing right this second. It is not an option. The trick is in the attitude. Especially at those times that confuse us the most; times that disturb our thoughts and affect our moods. There is the occasional overload from work and pressure from everywhere else. There is always a reason or two to feel stressed. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;There’s a tremendous weight on our shoulders. We sense heaviness – in our movement and inside us. Our thoughts are jaded and nothing is turning out as we’d hoped. Frustrations add to our disappointments. Constant flow of problems leaves us agitated. We can read failure between every line. We notice the shadows and miss the streak of light. We grow cynical and weary. We have energy levels approaching zero, and we are exhausted, both mentally and physically. We become drained by the entirety of it all. We don’t see any signs of clouds with silver linings. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;We’re barely able to let out a sigh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So we breathe. We take a breath. That’s all we have to do at that moment. Breathe in and breathe out. We cannot succumb to quitting. No matter how appealing the idea of giving up seems. The urge to let go is hard to resist. Sometimes we strongly feel we can’t take it anymore. The outcome is bleak either way. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;That’s precisely why we need to keep breathing, and if only to make it through. We fell down the first time we tried to walk. We almost drowned the first time we tried to swim. We missed the ball the very first time we swung a bat. We try, and try again. We find the will to hang on. Every once in a while we trip, stumble and fall. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Why do we let it hold us back? We can be proud we fell, as long as we get up again. We get up every time we fall. We can make our own way. No one said it was easy. In fact it gets harder every day. And we don’t have to fight. Fighting implies a lot of strength, but we may not have the energy in us right then. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;We just breathe. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;We clear our heads, and get perspective. You see, the &lt;em&gt;trick&lt;/em&gt; is to keep breathing.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-662393986239713848?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/hQGaANEBdyQ" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/662393986239713848/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/07/trick-is-to-keep-breathing.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/662393986239713848?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/662393986239713848?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/hQGaANEBdyQ/trick-is-to-keep-breathing.html" title="Trick is to keep breathing" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/07/trick-is-to-keep-breathing.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0IGQH46fip7ImA9WxVVEk0.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-8109758718124265639</id><published>2009-03-04T22:53:00.003+02:00</published><updated>2009-03-04T23:18:41.016+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-03-04T23:18:41.016+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="l'il voice ponders" /><title>The Irony of My Memories!</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I have a terrible memory. I forget. Almost religiously.I used to be pretty good with names, but lately that too has gone sour. It's like I have an unbelievably low capacity when it comes to memory retention.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;In the middle of a story, &lt;em&gt;a story I'm telling&lt;/em&gt;, occasionally I stop mid-sentence. I get this odd puzzled expression on my face. I'm surprised at myself. I have absolutely no idea what I wanted to say next, or how the story goes. I'd be talking on the phone and minutes after we hang up, I try to recall what we agreed on, and sometimes I go blank. For the life of me, I don't remember if we decided to meet at 7 or 7.30, if I was supposed to pass by or meet them there,  if I had to pick something up on the way or if the restaurant was the next right, or left for that matter. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;It's sad I know. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;It also happens with my reading. I'd be reading a novel, and then it comes up in conversation and I don't remember much of the details. Details I'd just been reading. Even in my exams, I face the exact hopeless dilemma. Like which management theory first stated motivating employees, or what was the correct term used to depict a certain state of things. It wasn't lack of studying. I concentrated hard enough. Maths was an exception though. I think I just memorized equations by heart and it worked. A tiny miracle I must say.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;So why is it that I can not forget things I really really no longer wish to remember? Some memories of times long gone, a different day and age and a different life altogether. I do remember those. Not vividly, but it's all there. Plenty of bits and pieces that jump right at you. It's not nostalgia. I'm not sure if these memories are simply haunting me, or they just linger. My point is I easily forget. Exceptionally easy. So why is it so damn hard to forget when you put your mind to it?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-8109758718124265639?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/H_F3tWyeOmo" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/8109758718124265639/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/03/irony-of-my-memories.html#comment-form" title="1 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/8109758718124265639?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/8109758718124265639?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/H_F3tWyeOmo/irony-of-my-memories.html" title="The Irony of My Memories!" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>1</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/03/irony-of-my-memories.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;Dk4FQnwzfyp7ImA9WxVWFkQ.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-8669224194929117873</id><published>2009-02-27T02:33:00.001+02:00</published><updated>2009-02-27T02:35:13.287+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-02-27T02:35:13.287+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><title>Things are Seldom What They Seem</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Drop the attitude.  Quit the labeling act. Seriously. Stereotyping is so outdated, it should not be part of our vocabulary.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's more to every single one of us than meets the eye. When you stick a label on to someone; you're really limiting any kind of experience or interaction you could possibly have. You're eliminating this person from having a voice of their own and using it. You’ve tuned them out completely; or worse you send them suffocating glances of disapproval.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We express ourselves differently. It's how we make sense of things, of who we are, and what we're about. Isn't it our freedom to do that, a given right we have as humans? Sometimes it comes as second nature to tag people into groups, something that's familiar. Sort of mentally categorizing who they are and what they represent. We tend to act according to that labeled category and what we make of it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This may sound pretty acceptable; even smart in certain situations. It seems savvy to read people and interpret their behavior. Creating boundaries, and placing people where they belong within the walls of those boundaries. It gives you signs of what to do, how to communicate and deal with them, all the way to what topics to completely avoid. You're shaping your relation with them based on it. You decide where to draw the line, getting closer or just staying away - being passionate, supportive, nasty, malicious or condescending. It's all in that label you made.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The grave error in doing this is that we are wrong at times. We judge. We make assumptions. We jump to conclusions. We build up so many non-existing scenarios in our heads that lead us to believe in a truth that is not remotely related to actual reality. We accuse and make a verdict, if only between ourselves. We have little idea, if any, of what actually is real, what those people we label are about. We don’t have all the pieces to the puzzle, something is missing in the picture, but we hardly care to complete it or verify. More importantly I must add, we almost always make our judgments prematurely, presuming way too soon to have all the facts. If I were to give this act a label, it would be ignorant.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Things are seldom what they seem.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is an odd relationship that exists between people. We're all connected in this universe. All of mankind. It is a small world; no denying that. I'm talking about connections on a totally different level. We are different - we think, act, understand, feel, speak and even look different. We have different beliefs, interests and skills but strangely enough in essence we are really the same. It's like a Venn Diagram. I'm surprising my own self making an analogy to a Mathematical concept. There are two circles that have a number of elements. The circles overlap. That area is common to both because the elements exist in both circles.  We have things in common. It's never fully mutually exclusive.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How many times have you caught yourself saying 'I was wrong about so and so, never thought they were like that' . It goes beyond first impressions where some people simply fail to impress. Some labels, some stereotypes exist way before any actual communication takes place. We despise and hold grudges based on labels. A label does not even constitute to a side of the story. It's drastically less . It's a small part of the design on the cover page.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wouldn’t it be utterly boring if we were all exactly the same? I mean the entire race of Homo sapiens, nothing unique about any one. Maybe you can argue that some cultures are collectivists and others promote grouping. Albeit we all belong.  We all belong, to a family, a significant other, to a school, an organization, a sports club, a religion, a political group. We flaunt our talents and create mini groups as well. We have a country we belong to. There are layers and various belief systems that make us up and form our characters and identity.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Malcolm Gladwell , author of the bestselling book Blink, states we have two seconds to make up our mind about people, and things. We rely on our gut feelings, our instinct. We all have our own hunches. While it's perfectly normal and recommended to maintain that attitude going through life, it's the exact opposite when it comes to labeling people. Labeling only allows us to see a single-minded view that the label portrays, which usually stands for an incomplete, inaccurate definition that we create to understand that label.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Let them be. No judging, no stereotyping. We are all fighting battles of enormous magnitude and repercussions. No one needs more toxic air to breathe.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-8669224194929117873?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/QHcj-ySUMNI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/8669224194929117873/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/02/things-are-seldom-what-they-seem.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/8669224194929117873?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/8669224194929117873?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/QHcj-ySUMNI/things-are-seldom-what-they-seem.html" title="Things are Seldom What They Seem" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2009/02/things-are-seldom-what-they-seem.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;Ak4ER3Y9fCp7ImA9WxVTGE4.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-1296963938140640412</id><published>2008-12-31T20:50:00.010+02:00</published><updated>2009-01-01T21:41:46.864+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2009-01-01T21:41:46.864+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Vibes" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="l'il voice ponders" /><title>Reflecting ...</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Sitting here as 2008 comes to an end. A very highly anticipated end I must add. The &lt;em&gt;chapter &lt;/em&gt;2008 of our lives is finally closing, much to our great relief. It's like there is a universal agreement that this year will go down in history as one of the worst. I won't dwell on that. Everything has been said and done - in every scrutinizing way conceivable to man.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;To sit and reminisce about the entire year. To mull over the past 365 days. Too many thoughts, too many incidents, and too many emotions. The setbacks, the difficulties and the breakthroughs. The dilemmas, the tragedies and the crises - personal, professional and global. To spice it up a little, add all the small - but remarkable nonetheless - victories, achievements and joys. Happy moments and moments of insane laugher as well. There is one thing I must admit about 2008: the year was definitely loaded, with more than its fair share of events!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;2008 has been one hell of a year. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;At this very moment, as I consciously sit and write about 2008 for me, I am feeling very reluctant. Why is December 31st &lt;em&gt;the &lt;/em&gt;time to look back? The time to reflect. The time to make resolutions for the new year to come. As we kiss 2008 goodbye and welcome 2009 with arms cautiously wide open, why do we make lists of what we want to do and change and where we want to go (physically and metaphorically), knowing all too well that most of it will be dropped and forgotten by Valentine ?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;What about decisions you've taken mid-way through the year and have meant something? What about revelations that do happen on a casual Sunday afternoon after a long day at work, after the battle with traffic and errands and the must-do and must-take phone calls? They are sometimes an eye-opener in every sense of the word.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I can ponder and I can contemplate. There is plenty to consider in 2008, but I find solace in a single reflection. Reflecting on the raging daemons that have surprisingly gone dormant, leaving behind a sense of calm. The feeling is almost surreal. Their noise is down to a whisper. Their shadows no longer block the sun and rain. Their toxic fumes won't cloud your judgment either. There is no 24/7 warp speed blur, just amazing exhilarating serenity. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I am fully aware they will wake up from this slumber, it's only the nature of their existence. Th&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;at thought makes me smile. It's bizarre and disturbing, and what's even more alarming, I kind of know why. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;It is undeniably way too cliché. Way too cliché.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Come what may.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Disclaimer to any reader for feeling mushy, corny or nauseous right now. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;My most sincere apologies.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-1296963938140640412?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/IXuRNv3SmkU" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/1296963938140640412/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/12/reflecting.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/1296963938140640412?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/1296963938140640412?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/IXuRNv3SmkU/reflecting.html" title="Reflecting ..." /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/12/reflecting.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0cGRXg5fyp7ImA9WxRbFks.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-3086743519222100072</id><published>2008-12-06T13:15:00.010+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-07T16:43:44.627+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-07T16:43:44.627+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mood" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Bits and Pieces" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><title>Growing Pains .. Pains Growing</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;We can't blame the signs this time. This one time, the entire universe is telling us something. Something supposedly magnificant. Endless signs announce its arrival. With bright lights, balloons, candles, lots of cheering, dancing and celebration. All the signs bring along a wonderful feeling of euphoria as well. At that one point though, we are totally unprepared. Clueless and oblivious to everything that lies ahead.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Today marks the day when you turn 18. I'm 18 and, I can drive.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;WOOHOO.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;We &lt;em&gt;own &lt;/em&gt;the world in our hands. I had the world in my hands, sitting behind the steering wheel of my very first car. The excitement of it all. The thrill that you're 18. I got my driver's license even before I got my ID. I was 19 I think when I actually did. Don't ask. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Anyway, it is a big thing. It's huge, it's of massive proportions. It was before. It will be for just about every teenager, the dream of turning 18 and owning an official driver's license.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I know so many teens drive around way before that. Driving isn't the point. The point is you're 18. It's that one calendar day. No other birthday compares. Not a single one. 18 is one of a kind, unique from every angle. You have an official ticket to grown up land. The land of dreams. You feel you are invincible, and you realize the endless possibilities that lay in front of you. You're young, but not a kid. You're full of life, full of energy, and you're 100% sure you can do just about anything you set your mind up to. 'gonna be 18 till I die'. Bryan Adams said it all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Cue in life.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Now it's your 21st birthday, you're not a minor anymore. 21. That's another major milestone. No longer a teenager, regardless of all the joy and pride of being a teen. This time it's even better. It's exhilirating. Being 21 is another story; and there is luster involved. You're 21. Your opinion counts. The little thoughts forming through your head; they can be voiced. You can make decisions. You've officially become an adult. It sounds very significant. An adult. You can do things on your own. You have a life of your own. You are in control. Done with education, got your degree, and you decide what you want to do. You believe in yourself, and in your dreams. Get a job, begin your professional career. Earn your own living. Make money for yourself. That first paycheck - unforgettable. You can purchase anything your heart desires. You totally rock your world.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Cue in life once again. This time it's stronger than the forces of nature. Life just happens. (&lt;em&gt;no pun intended&lt;/em&gt;) &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Somewhere along the line; we get taller and older, and realize that our taste in fashion, shoes, chocolate, coffee and so many other unimportant things has changed. We inevitably face the real world out there. We seek and explore. We stumble and fall. We try to paint with all the colors of the wind. We stand up. We stand tall. We kick our fears away. We win some, we lose some. We make believe. We hide behind masks. We follow our hearts. We defy our logic. We ignore those who don't agree with us. We live and learn. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;We're growing, and we're expected to be responsible, mature and serious - in one other word, a &lt;em&gt;grown up&lt;/em&gt;. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Do we grow up though? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Our thoughts, our troubles, our worries, our problems, they're actually still the same. Some of us are still hanging on to the same dreams. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;You could argue that so much changes, nothing stays the same. Some dreams come true, some are abandoned, and new dreams are made. Problems grow, sometimes they intertwine and get more complicated, some problems get resolved, and new problems emerge. We forget what troubled us a few days ago. Nothing is the same.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;You're right. Everything changes. Every single thing.Yet in a perplexing and very subtle way,  it's still the same. The essence remains the same. There are traces of us in there, back then and right now. We were young. We were naive. Some of even foolish. Now we're older, but are we ever wiser? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;“&lt;em&gt;We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.&lt;/em&gt;” ~ Anais Nin&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-3086743519222100072?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=YSkAZdaaJpg:FD9xdwR7ySU:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=YSkAZdaaJpg:FD9xdwR7ySU:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/YSkAZdaaJpg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/3086743519222100072/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/12/growing-pains-pains-growing.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/3086743519222100072?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/3086743519222100072?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/YSkAZdaaJpg/growing-pains-pains-growing.html" title="Growing Pains .. Pains Growing" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/12/growing-pains-pains-growing.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0cERHczfSp7ImA9WxRaEEw.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-7438466283243934487</id><published>2008-12-06T02:33:00.007+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T17:56:45.985+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-11T17:56:45.985+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mood" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Vibes" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Grey's Anatomy" /><title>You Can Roar</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;"&lt;em&gt;Chin up. Put your shoulders back, walk proud, strut a little. Don't lick your wounds: celebrate them. The scars you bear are the signs of a competitor. You're in a lion fight, Stevens. Just because you didn't win doesn't mean you don't know how to roar. &lt;/em&gt;" ~ Richard Weber, Grey's Anatomy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Once again &lt;em&gt;Grey's Anatomy &lt;/em&gt;totally blows me away. I am overwhelmed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The wisdom in the character's dialogue is extraordinary. It is full of amazing insight. I marvel at how beautiful the words are structured, the sentences are designed, and just how exquisite it is all put together. There is a brilliant world of meanings in what they say, think, imply, or even ridicule. I find that incredible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's simple everyday conversations that take place in a teaching hospital between doctors - about practicing medicine, saving lives, juggling with life and death decisions, staying ahead of the game, and being better surgeons. It vividly portrays the inner lives of these people, the demons they fight, their conflicts, their emotional roller coaster rides, their ambition, their greed, their desire and every other possible emotion or feeling or thought they experience.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Okai. Let's not get astray here, and praise the moon and the stars. It is an award-winning American series. It's complete fiction. There is an entire team of production and talented scriptwriters to create those characters, the themes of the episodes, the story lines, the medical cases and every single word they utter, including all the smart and witty comments.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What I appreciate though is beyond the drama. I was only able to realize the beauty in it all when I took the time to step back for a moment and look at the picture as a whole. The picture I saw is a labyrinthine journey of life, very elegantly painted. A picture we can all relate to in our own way, as completely different as it may be, and at widely varying levels. We find and learn something; of ourselves, our anecdote, our turmoil, our individual version of life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And in my own story, the quote at the beginning is a brand new definition for perseverance; taking one more breath, struggling yet hanging on strong and determined to try again, facing everyone and everything as you standup one more time. You persevere ... knowing you can roar.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-7438466283243934487?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/ceS25Thv-ag" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/7438466283243934487/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/12/you-can-roar.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/7438466283243934487?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/7438466283243934487?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/ceS25Thv-ag/you-can-roar.html" title="You Can Roar" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/12/you-can-roar.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CUUBRHo_eSp7ImA9WxRbFko.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-2782768833331853558</id><published>2008-12-06T01:50:00.005+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-07T20:07:35.441+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-07T20:07:35.441+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Bits and Pieces" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Grey's Anatomy" /><title>First Moment of Truth</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;First Moment of Truth is a concept invented by P&amp;amp;G. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;"&lt;em&gt;According to Proctor &amp;amp; Gamble shoppers make up their mind about a product in three to seven seconds, just the time it takes to note a product on a store shelf. FMOT is considered the most important marketing opportunity for a brand. &lt;/em&gt;"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;The &lt;em&gt;First Moment of Truth&lt;/em&gt;. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;There's a certain look people get on their face, when their eyes widen as the 'truth' dawns on them. They go 'a ha', or 'aaaaaaaaaa'. In that exact moment, they get it. If life had animation, FMOT would most certainly be portrayed with a lightbulb going 'ting' above someone's head. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;On a totally different note, from another perspective altogether, this quote below serves as a FMOT on its own. It's an eye-opener and it enlightens. You need to read between the lines. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;"Ugh, you make me sick. Have some fire. Be unstoppable. Be a force of nature. Be better than anyone here, and don't give a damn what anyone thinks. There are no teams here, no buddies. You're on your own. Be on your own." ~ Christina Yang, Grey's Anatomy&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-2782768833331853558?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=zQcLLXBORgA:PahIBwUi3GI:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=zQcLLXBORgA:PahIBwUi3GI:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/zQcLLXBORgA" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/2782768833331853558/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/12/first-moment-of-truth.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2782768833331853558?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2782768833331853558?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/zQcLLXBORgA/first-moment-of-truth.html" title="First Moment of Truth" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/12/first-moment-of-truth.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CE8FQ3k_eip7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-8019921025040654909</id><published>2008-11-29T16:11:00.005+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:46:52.742+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:46:52.742+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mood" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Vibes" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="l'il voice ponders" /><title>Say No, No More</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Beached. I think this song is deep. Never mind that it's from Di Caprio's &lt;em&gt;The Beach &lt;/em&gt;movie! The song itself has substance. Music isn't bad either; it's perfect for a cruz or a long ride. You'll find yourself going with it. There's a certain mood for that kind of rythym.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Back to the song.&lt;br /&gt;The song talks about paradise; about what paradise actually is, so to speak. Paradise is nowhere; paradise is what you feel at a certain point in time. You can't go around looking for it as a place that exists somewhere in specific. Paradise is more something you feel at a certain time. It's in that moment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The song is really simple. No metaphors used, or pictures painted. No lyrics that make you gasp in awe 'how on earth did they say that so beautifully'. It's one of those WYSIWYG. Only this time it's what you hear, not &lt;em&gt;see!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The reason am rambling about this song is this. It says something, in one verse. The kind of truth that stares you in the face, but you don't really see it. Then it hits you!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For bewildering reasons unknown to myself, it feels like &lt;em&gt;now &lt;/em&gt;is the time to try new things, new experiences, no matter how minute or insignificant. This year 2008. Just go out there and do whatever.&lt;br /&gt;Be open.&lt;br /&gt;Because if you always do what you've always done, then you'll always get what you've always got.&lt;br /&gt;We all know how that ended.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But if you don't immediately say no. If you take a second before you speak your mind. If you look at people a little different. If you look beyond the obvious. If you look at them with an unbiased eye; no judging, no stereotyping. If you know when to leave. If you know when to be polite and say little. If you realize there is so much more beneath the dull surface. If you nudge that nagging feeling that scares you, and do it anyway. If you take a breath and just try. If you just do it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is a whole new world; waiting for you to experience. Full of new opportunities. New dimensions to explore and learn from - about yourself, about life, about others. New venues to take, and endless possibilities. New mistakes. New interests to pursue. As small as they may all seem, every little one of those tiny new experiences holds so much more. They add meaning and depth to your own life. A richer life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just my 2 cents!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Trust me&lt;br /&gt;It's Paradise&lt;br /&gt;This is where the hungry come to feed&lt;br /&gt;For mine is a generation that circles the globe&lt;br /&gt;in search of something we haven't tried before&lt;br /&gt;so never refuse an invitation&lt;br /&gt;never resist the unfamiliar&lt;br /&gt;never fail to be polite&lt;br /&gt;and never outstay your welcome&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;just keep your mind open and&lt;br /&gt;suck in the experience&lt;br /&gt;and if it hurts&lt;br /&gt;you know what ...&lt;br /&gt;it's probably worth it&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;~ Beached by Orbital&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-8019921025040654909?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/_yaYe1___C8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/8019921025040654909/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/say-no-no-more_29.html#comment-form" title="3 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/8019921025040654909?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/8019921025040654909?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/_yaYe1___C8/say-no-no-more_29.html" title="Say No, No More" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>3</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/say-no-no-more_29.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0QBQ3w9fSp7ImA9WxRbGEg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-1270725857776073002</id><published>2008-11-29T15:36:00.007+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-09T22:42:32.265+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-09T22:42:32.265+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Vibes" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="l'il voice ponders" /><title>Ode to a Signature</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;A signature. My signature. Right below my name. Not the typical bank signature. It doesn't even say my name. It's an online signature - the one you add at the end of your emails. I think it was 6 or 7 years ago when I put that signature. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I hardly use that particular email, so naturally I completely forgot about that signature, until a few days ago. I was about to send a mail and I saw it. It really made me stop for a second or two. It was overwhelming.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;You know how a picture sometimes captures a rare moment in our lives. Beautiful moments, of times that were wonderful, we were happy, having fun, surrounded by people we love. A pictures tell a story, at times a story bigger than what we originally experienced. All credit to small details. A moment or two in ridiculous outfits, doing the stupidest of things, caught by surprise in the spur of the moment. They didn't say the picture paints a thousand words for no reason. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;It's just that I also believe in the power of the written word. It possesses a unique quality of its own - to hold bits and pieces of ourselves, our thoughts, our minds at a certain time and age. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Dance as if no one is watching you,&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Love as if you've never been hurt before,&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Sing as if no one can hear you,&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Live as if heaven is on earth&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Those words made up my signature. Those were words I literally lived by. That was me. My outlook on life. I believed in the good, in sunshine, and in happiness. I wore a smile at all times. I believed in myself, in following my dreams, in doing what I want, enjoying the moment, and not paying attention to people who despise you. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;After initially being dumbfounded when I read my signature words, I went 'yaaaaaaaaaa'. Then I kind of smiled, and memories kept flooding in. There were glimpses of myself, in another world, living a different life. There were faces I had forgotten, battles I no longer fought, jokes that still made me laugh, issues I find irrelevant now and music I can't bring myself to talk about. Then came a sigh, and whole new meaning to the phrase life will never cease to amaze me.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;That's who I was, a person who's passionate about life and living. It is who I am right now. That's who I'll become. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Worth mentioning, those three are not remotely related.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-1270725857776073002?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=_uujoRibcHQ:MKIvbSXOmWM:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=_uujoRibcHQ:MKIvbSXOmWM:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/_uujoRibcHQ" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/1270725857776073002/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/ode-to-signature.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/1270725857776073002?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/1270725857776073002?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/_uujoRibcHQ/ode-to-signature.html" title="Ode to a Signature" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/ode-to-signature.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEAMRXw9cCp7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-2916926804233549862</id><published>2008-11-27T19:11:00.006+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:46:24.268+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:46:24.268+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mood" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Vibes" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Bits and Pieces" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="l'il voice ponders" /><title>There is a Land ...</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;There is a land, not so far away, which goes by the name &lt;em&gt;Las Procrastinata&lt;/em&gt;. It's a beautiful land, with lush greens, rich landscapes, cool blue waters, breath-taking scenery, gorgeous bright sunflowers and so much more for the eyes and soul to feast on. Sounds like a haven. Perfect escape to soothe our troubled minds.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Actually, in this incredibly spectacular land, I am the &lt;em&gt;Queen&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;I have an unwavering passion to procrastinate, and I do it ever so creatively. I have the power and unwise wisdom to find endless ways to spend the day doing an infinite number of things.Totally meaningless things, which happen to be very amusing, entertaining, time-consuming and thought provoking. Everything aside from what I need to get done. It is very nourishing to the soul. Never mind the deadlines, the plans you already made, the decisions you really have to think over and well, &lt;em&gt;make&lt;/em&gt;, or the reports you need to focus on to prepare. Every single one of those can wait. I am fully engaged in giving new meaning and a world of definitions to &lt;em&gt;wasting time&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;And I do have the nerve to plead not guily this time. I do admit, as a Queen, I have truly enjoyed every single indulgence. A clear head, surprisingly, gets things done. As a Queen, I need to ensure my sanity remains -in the chaotic, insane, moving-at-warp-speed-ride we call life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In reality though, isn't it ironic ( and maybe even an absurd paradox of some sort) how our mind tricks us at these critical times and takes us to other lands, where our wild thoughts run free and breathe, totally carefree, totally oblivious to the price(s) we eventually have to pay?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;"Procrastination is like a credit card: it's a lot of fun until you get the bill." ~ Christopher Parker &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-2916926804233549862?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=JSL_2wPk-GM:6i8MZqxBDEU:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=JSL_2wPk-GM:6i8MZqxBDEU:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/JSL_2wPk-GM" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/2916926804233549862/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/there-is-land.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2916926804233549862?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2916926804233549862?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/JSL_2wPk-GM/there-is-land.html" title="There is a Land ..." /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/there-is-land.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CE8DQHszeip7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-895693919788042517</id><published>2008-11-24T01:47:00.005+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:47:51.582+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:47:51.582+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Vibes" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><title>A Natural High</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;i have a secret.&lt;br /&gt;I've slept like a little over 3 hours in the past 2 days. Nooo! That's not my secret! You'd think I'd be red eyed by now. all blurry and dead tired, walking like a zombie.&lt;br /&gt;am not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;that's &lt;/em&gt;my secret.&lt;br /&gt;i was all up nite, last nite, on one major adrenaline rush. literally, every brain cell in my body was wide awake. yup major insomnia! didn't bother me one bit tho. it's like somehow all of a sudden everything fell right back in place. just about everything.&lt;br /&gt;i could breathe. i could smile, and laugh from my heart. i chatted the nite away with a friend, rambling and pondering about a billion things in life. i could've screamed and danced too.&lt;br /&gt;and i felt light. i was light and i was thrilled. i had all those feel good vibes. amazingly ecstatic vibes. the ones that get you excited like a 6 year old when he got that gift that makes his eyeballs pop out.&lt;br /&gt;and i was smiling all nite long.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;my smile&lt;/em&gt;. the one that really shines my face, and brightens me up all over.&lt;br /&gt;i was me .. misteca! once again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was on a natural high. natural intoxication believe it or not.&lt;br /&gt;3mla dema3' wahm bs mn 3'er 7aga khales.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So why is it again that people get stoned? am not judging; it's their brain cells not mine they're killing. rite?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-895693919788042517?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=BMxhbWXEg7A:MHaDGDeYBtU:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=BMxhbWXEg7A:MHaDGDeYBtU:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/BMxhbWXEg7A" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/895693919788042517/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/natural-high.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/895693919788042517?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/895693919788042517?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/BMxhbWXEg7A/natural-high.html" title="A Natural High" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/natural-high.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEACQXozcSp7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-1054444386441980887</id><published>2008-11-21T05:29:00.005+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:46:00.489+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:46:00.489+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Friends" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Bits and Pieces" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Poems" /><title>A Million Little Things</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;This initially was gonna be a blog about friends. i just have no words to speak.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Friendship isn't a big thing - it's a million little things. ~ &lt;/em&gt;Author Unknown&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;it'll take more than one blog to talk about the million little things. one little thing here is a poem i wrote light years ago. and even tho am not that person anymore in so many ways, and i hardly remember those days, the words do linger.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;One Of A Kind&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I sit &amp;amp; wonder how&lt;br /&gt;I could have made it without you&lt;br /&gt;I remember all those times you listened&lt;br /&gt;&amp;amp; made me smile when I felt so blue&lt;br /&gt;When I felt I had nowhere to turn&lt;br /&gt;I knew I could turn to you&lt;br /&gt;&amp;amp; although you couldn’t stop my pain&lt;br /&gt;You still pulled me through&lt;br /&gt;When my sun began to dim&lt;br /&gt;You made me believe it will rise again,&lt;br /&gt;When I felt all hope had gone&lt;br /&gt;You showed me how to find it within&lt;br /&gt;So if it all ends somehow&lt;br /&gt;One thought still comes to mind…&lt;br /&gt;The friendship we shared one day&lt;br /&gt;is truly one of a kind.&lt;br /&gt;~ misteca&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-1054444386441980887?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=prmF98yiRVM:6g5fR05MgLU:yIl2AUoC8zA"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?a=prmF98yiRVM:6g5fR05MgLU:63t7Ie-LG7Y"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/misteca?d=63t7Ie-LG7Y" border="0"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/prmF98yiRVM" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/1054444386441980887/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/million-little-things.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/1054444386441980887?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/1054444386441980887?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/prmF98yiRVM/million-little-things.html" title="A Million Little Things" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/million-little-things.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEAGRHY5eip7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-374841076260107382</id><published>2008-11-20T00:15:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:45:25.822+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:45:25.822+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mood" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Black" /><title>A Wave of Emotions</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;And suddenly a curtain descends in front of your eyes. It traps your senses. Then a wave of emotions washes over you. Instinctively, you look around you. Everything appears like it was just a moment ago; nothing has changed even though you realize it is all so different now. What you see in front of you is nothing you want to embrace. So you walk away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You feel an immense weight on your shoulders, slowing you down, holding you back. You sigh. You try to walk &lt;em&gt;determined&lt;/em&gt;. There’s no more bounce in your step.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You take another sigh; and breathe in all the colors of life. When you open your eyes though, the colors wither away into hues of black and white. And you know beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you lost that sparkle in your eyes. There is no warmth in your smile anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A small thought begins to form in your head. What is this. Why is this? Forget what, just why. Why now.Why again. You know you’ve been here before, it is all too familiar. There is no denying the déjà vu.&lt;br /&gt;You become acutely aware of a new crack. Sadly, it’s a crack in your soul; it tugs at you in all the wrong places. You feel the void. You can’t escape the taste the bitterness even if you tried. It contains you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Irony of ironies is how emptiness can hurt, how nothingness can cause you pain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why again you wonder.&lt;br /&gt;But is this really something you want to know. Will knowing the reason why make it go away? That’s what our futile minds believe in spite of ourselves.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’ll save you the journey this time. The why lies in the profound meaning of a 4 syllable word we refer to as &lt;em&gt;disappointment&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Oft expectation fails and most oft there&lt;br /&gt;Where most it promises, and oft it hits &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Where hope is coldest and despair most fits.&lt;/em&gt; ~ William Shakespeare&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-374841076260107382?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/-TJr2KHaQb4" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/374841076260107382/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/wave-of-emotions.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/374841076260107382?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/374841076260107382?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/-TJr2KHaQb4/wave-of-emotions.html" title="A Wave of Emotions" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/wave-of-emotions.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEEASXcycSp7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-2934348875065957532</id><published>2008-11-08T00:39:00.005+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:44:08.999+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:44:08.999+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mood" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Black" /><title>A Twist In Life</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Life without hope is misery at its best. If there is nothing to make you want to get up in the morning; nothing to look forward to; everything you desire is beyond your reach; your dreams are fractured or lost. Sometimes you're the one that's lost. You have no idea what you want anymore, everything you love has gone away, you literally don't recognize what you have, you can't see it or appreciate it. You're confused, and wonder what you're really made of. What should you do, what should you become. Where do you go from here. Is there anywhere to go from here.You might try to look for answers. You might try to hide in the shadow. You deny what you feel, yet you feel you're drowning and there is no sign of shore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then life kicks in with its twisted sense of humor and offers us hope. It might come disguised. You don't see it. You can feel it though. You can even hear it. Just when you're determined to give up, to let go, to stop and admit you can't any longer, you hear a sound from some far away land whispering to you to try once more. The sound of hope. If you choose to listen to it, and find that strength inside you to try one more time, to swim your way out, you might make it to see the dawn.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ah! I just spent amazing two hours laughing my heart out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities. ~ Jean Houston&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-2934348875065957532?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/nE7oV-GUIeo" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/2934348875065957532/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/twist-in-life.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2934348875065957532?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/2934348875065957532?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/nE7oV-GUIeo/twist-in-life.html" title="A Twist In Life" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/twist-in-life.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEEERXY-fip7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-7944699250957932456</id><published>2008-11-03T01:04:00.001+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:43:24.856+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:43:24.856+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Friends" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Mood" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Bits and Pieces" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Black" /><title>In Silence</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;Silence.&lt;br /&gt;Silence is deadly.&lt;br /&gt;The silence before the storm.&lt;br /&gt;Our inner silence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In a truly rare moment, when there is just silence around you, you become aware of your own breathing. You feel your heart beating. Your consciousness rises to another level. You actually notice you're blinking. Your senses are so acute; picking up signals and glimpses of things around you haven't noticed before.&lt;br /&gt;Yet silence numbs somehow. Silence awakens the senses yet it numbs &lt;em&gt;you&lt;/em&gt;. It's like time stands still for that split second. You can move, but ure really immobile. You are numb. Numb while you listen to the silence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In another kind of silence, so many words are spoken. In silence, we actually say something. The message is in that silence. It's just a message without words.&lt;br /&gt;They say some things are better left unsaid. Are they?&lt;br /&gt;Especially when the sound of their silence is defeaning and it's all you can hear?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends ~ Martin Luther King, Jr&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-7944699250957932456?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/IMGllrwqLpY" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/7944699250957932456/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/in-silence.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/7944699250957932456?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/7944699250957932456?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/IMGllrwqLpY/in-silence.html" title="In Silence" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/11/in-silence.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEIDSXc_cSp7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-4608686760902999803</id><published>2008-11-01T02:35:00.001+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:42:58.949+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:42:58.949+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="l'il voice ponders" /><title>The Grand Jigsaw Puzzle</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;It just dawned on me that it is hard to try and make sense of things at times. Making sense is difficult. Why you may ask? You think it's simple. Nothing to it, right?. We have our logic to rely on. We do. But it still is exhausting. It's troubling and complicated. And worst of all, you don't always &lt;em&gt;make sense of &lt;/em&gt;it. You keep goin over and over thru whatever it is that's on ure mind. Your mind spends endless hours running around in circles, struggling to figure it out. Searching for a reason; to comprehend really.To know why. To touch upon some divine wisdom and &lt;em&gt;understand&lt;/em&gt;. You think you got it, but.. But there's always something missing. It doesn't make sense!&lt;br /&gt;All your thoughts are like small bits and pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The grand jigsaw puzzle of life perhaps. But no one has all the pieces. Or the insight to know how to put them together. We try. We think we're smart. We think we &lt;em&gt;know&lt;/em&gt;. We know how to put the interlocking pieces together, to make a picture of some sort. We pride ourselves on our impressive victory. We smile, we rejoice in our make-believe triumph. The pieces of the puzzle actually make sense; to our mediocre minds. We did manage to assemble the pieces. The challenge has beed resolved. In our minds we see a picture. Whatever it may be. The pieces fell in place and produced a collage. We try to relate to the collage in front of us. We relate by transforming the collage into something that exists in our world. Something we recognize.The collage becomes an image. We decide to make sense of that depiction. That's what it means. It makes sense. We understand what it means. It makes sense. We find relief in that revelation.&lt;br /&gt;Little do we know of the reality of the grand jigsaw puzzle. The puzzle which holds our thoughts, our questions, our concerns, our worries, our hopes, our dreams, our fears, our experiences, our awareness, our intellect - all in an infinite number of small oddly-shaped pieces. This puzzle might take a lifetime to complete.&lt;br /&gt;No one has all the answers. As we go through the circle of life, we live and learn. We learn to interpret the pieces of the puzzle life presents for ourselves. It's our own way of making sense of things. Little do we realize, if we ever do, that it is only our &lt;em&gt;own &lt;/em&gt;way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is unwise to be too sure of one's own wisdom. It is healthy to be reminded that the strongest might weaken and the wisest might err. ~ Mohandas K. Gandhi&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I lie awake at night, and ask, 'Where have I gone wrong?' Then a voice says to me, 'This is going to take more than one night.' ~ Charles M. Schultz&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-4608686760902999803?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/63EPbf8c8Cg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/4608686760902999803/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/10/grand-jigsaw-puzzle.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/4608686760902999803?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/4608686760902999803?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/63EPbf8c8Cg/grand-jigsaw-puzzle.html" title="The Grand Jigsaw Puzzle" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/10/grand-jigsaw-puzzle.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEIHSX44cSp7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-6651263286221355370</id><published>2008-10-29T14:42:00.001+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:42:18.039+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:42:18.039+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Bits and Pieces" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Grey's Anatomy" /><title>Believing</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;" I believe in a lot of things .... I believe that, inspite of the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, we will all be okai.... I believe that believing we survive is what makes us survive. "  ~ Izzy Stevens, Grey's Anatomy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-6651263286221355370?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/DWhC2G386gg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/6651263286221355370/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/10/believing.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/6651263286221355370?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/6651263286221355370?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/DWhC2G386gg/believing.html" title="Believing" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/10/believing.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEIER3c6cSp7ImA9WxRbE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2486172315572724840.post-727922071382418183</id><published>2008-10-27T02:37:00.001+02:00</published><updated>2008-12-03T18:41:46.919+02:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2008-12-03T18:41:46.919+02:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="C'est La Vie?" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Bits and Pieces" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Thoughts" /><title>I've Been Thinking</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;I have at least 10,000 different thoughts goin thru my head. Seriously, I think too much. Don't we all? We're always thinking. There's &lt;em&gt;always &lt;/em&gt;something on our minds. That thing that's been buggin u at work all day,why did so-and-so do/say that and what does that mean really, what gift to buy for ure friend's bday, what to wear on the katb ketab on the weekend, how to explain why you did what you did, whats gonna happen on the next episode of bla bla bla,why is the street not movin, whats with so-and-so's attitude, hmmm if only ....&lt;br /&gt;See what I mean? It's like this massive spaghetti-like network of thoughts interwined and goin non-stop.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I've been thinkin, why don't we have an off button? Yup, OFF button. A cute red one, or a cool black one for the guys. When we can stop our brain from thinking. It needs the rest. I sure do! Okai, if an off button is stretchin it, how about a pause then? A little pause, a time-out, a break and we get to enjoy a moment or two of shhhhh.. no thoughts cloudin our heads, no little voices in our heads, no one in our head. Not a thought, not a single idea, not even a half thought. And most certainly no one's face.&lt;br /&gt;Now, wouldn't that be &lt;em&gt;true peace of mind? &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe we can all think about that instead!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So while we wait around, wishfully hopin for the pause button to miraculously exist and ease our troubled little minds. Here are two quotes to ponder upon :&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Life isnt supposed to make you feel good. Life isnt supposed to make you feel bad either. Life is supposed to make you feel &lt;/em&gt;~Author Unknown&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Life is simple, its just not easy. &lt;/em&gt;~Author Unknown&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Sigh" You know what am thinkin right now? Isn't life beautiful!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2486172315572724840-727922071382418183?l=misteca.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="feedflare"&gt;
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&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/misteca/~4/7xADKa3B9iA" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/feeds/727922071382418183/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/10/ive-been-thinking.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/727922071382418183?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2486172315572724840/posts/default/727922071382418183?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/misteca/~3/7xADKa3B9iA/ive-been-thinking.html" title="I've Been Thinking" /><author><name>misteca</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04813448464000103476</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="31" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FjYcTJ5bkqQ/Slm8ADWfwGI/AAAAAAAAABM/NTLtTP3hS1w/S220/ana_bkteb.jpg" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://misteca.blogspot.com/2008/10/ive-been-thinking.html</feedburner:origLink></entry></feed>

