My inspiration - Petite Anglaise

Life

for me , the word ‘ blog ‘ was just a program in the internet that people used . i always used to fancy the internet and the the different options they provided , but apart from that i had no attachment to internet . i don’t remember correctly when but it was my sister who told me about Facebook which was created by Mark Zuckerberg . it was really interesting  for me and my brother , i guess we were just 11 and  my sister told me that there was an age limit so that only she could create one ( would we agree with her ? NEVER :) . we told her that if we could not create one then no one should create …tit for tat . at last the decision was made after a long struggle of hair pulling , pinching and several other crazy stuff . we were afraid to ask our parents about this and decided we would somehow find a way to create one without the knowledge of our parents. the first person to volunteer up was my sister . we we took Google and searched Facebook  and selected a option which appealed to us as a sign up option. my sister started working on it and suddenly my father burst in . he was suprised to see us acting like we were criminals  caught red – handed . in our little minds it was just what i was feeling . my sister suddenly closed the tab in the blink of an eye and my father turned to us and said ‘ its good to see you guys have fun together’ , we all smiled shyly and waited for him to leave . we all heaved a great sigh of relief. we had many interrupted that day but we somehow finished our mission. but we was caught by my mother and we did several tricks to make her on our side and at last , we 3 had a Facebook account.
Oops!!! , i did not realize i was diverting the subject .anyway since i have started a story , let me at least end it . within a few weeks we got a mail in the Facebook saying  that it was a fake account and it was having viruses(it was for the 3 of us – the message). i did not  know the meaning of any of these big words then , so we continued using( as my sister is not a mastermind in computers , she could not explain it too :P ). anyway , i started to get fed up with just 30 friends and no one to chat , and eventually stopped using it . anyway i could not use my FB account again because i forgot the password … hmm.
okay, lets get to the blog. i love reading books and my father buys me books  every vacations . and this time we had a budget of 1000 rupees , but my father ended up paying 1064 rupees .. ( heh heh ..so me ). and among one of the books i bought was PETITE ANGLAISE  written by Catherine Sanderson .. it was a nice story , it was she who introduced me to the blog( not directly) . the story contains how a ordinary women like her starts a blog that changes hers and the world of the people she loves and how there lives has been turned upside down. but after that she realizes that she has find the old her , the cheerful her and lives her life to the utmost.i am not saying i want my life to be turned upside down but she tells me how  a new her is born and how she loves it. it certainly is funny to say this but i guess that a new me is born here . a me who is learning from my mistakes . she also tells how she remembers the first comment she receives on her ninth entry… i guess all the people who start a blog remembers there first comment . so i guess , now you can realize how petite anglaise changed my life. in other words , it is because of her i have come to realize one of my most precious dreams …- writing ….
Today , i am a proud owner of a Facebook account ( my cousin created a real account for me .. thanks Alwin ) , a Twitter account , a Gmail account and of course a Blog..
petite anglaise

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bad art

Image
I have lived and breathed through my art, I have loved people in silence yet so loud with my art, I found the strength to forgive people through my art and I am learning to love myself through my art. The repressed emotions I had within myself found an outlet and I came to realise that it was normal. That it was normal to accept feelings I had been trying to hide for so long. I still wonder where I would be if I kept on believing that parts of me I disliked could never learn to love by itself. The distinction to call art good or bad feels like a limit, a limit to control the way we humans are capable of expressing ourselves. We are all in this together. Together in an effort to be understood.We all have our art. Art never has to be something that can be witnessed by others. It can be anything. It could be a feeling inside you, the crumpled paper in your room that has your words, strokes or melody, or simply your existence. It could be the way you hold someone, the way you help others t
Read more

Monologue of an anxious heart

Image
  Love is a strange feeling. I have tried to write about it so many times but it never feels right. So here goes another try. 1. This isn't something you wished for but now that it's here,it feels like everything. And sometimes it doesn't. And that frightens you. Like a huge 'I told you so' from life.  2. In a world where everything starts feeling like a trial and error experiment, you constantly doubt yourself by thinking if this is it. Should you look for more?  3. Everyone is a replacement for everyone in life. It's the best and worst thing about love. 4. But, 1. You stroke your fingers against their skin three times back and forth and say 'This means I love you when I am too tired to speak'.  2. You finally meet someone that lets you embrace your individuality. Something you were always afraid of because all of life had been a struggle to blend in. And now there's someone telling you 'That's you, you don't have to change'. You are
Read more

Nights,Cigarettes and the piano.

Image
The frequent trips to the terrace at night was something to look forward to. The view wasn't marvelous but once you have had  a glance at the night sky, you wouldn't be disappointed. The two apartments opposite our building had few tales to tell in its silence. And for those who were eager to listen, they heard a murmur of wonder, habits and uncertainty.    The man with the cigarette reminded me of two people. My grandfather would always hid his pack of cigarettes from me, although I never really know the reason why. Whenever I find him smoking or discover his secret stash, he would let out a stretched 'ayyo' and has a look of despair and regret on his face. I would scold him childishly. But  I was always confused. Was it the face I made? The one I learned from my mother when she finds dad smoking. The look had grown on me. But the meaning of it hadn't crossed my mind- disappointment? What about the days when she lets him smoke when he has had a rough day? Her
Read more