Now let�s see what we can write about today…think!! What should it be!! Let�s write about “dust”.
So “DUST” it shall b:
I was riding a bike-sometime back-much like anyone else-and I went blind (momentarily!!).
Where are we going? We are going towards dust. There have been parades of writing about all subjects but all we know about dust is that we return to it! What does one mean by that? Well!! It means that we are born from dust and we return to it after death, this of course is true only for our physical existence if at all it is true. But let�s think about it the other way, if that is what is left of us apart from the immaculate soul which wanders until reincarnation, then can you not contemplate how important dust is. What went in that moment in my eyes could be one of your forefathers or even mine? Don�t you believe me? If you believe one part of the supposition then you will have to believe the other part as well.
I love fantasy; I have always kept my own world where I have dreamt of wierdity, pain, pleasure, heroism, almost everything capable to be copulated inside a young soft womb in the skull. And over the years I have learned hard to makes sense out of the most horrendous and nonsensical of things, what am I doing? I am just playing with thoughts. And here right now I will share with u a history of a moment.
I can feel my blood running faster, may be rushing out of my mouth as well. But all this is irrelevant, I just want you to read with care, because to you these words might seem farce, fictitious and imaginary, but they are no more fantastic then you and I, yes! that is the truth of the matter if this dust is unreal then so are we or our thoughts, then how relative are things, they are not relative they are one, just two sides of the same coin, two perceptions out of so many. DUST lies under our feet, no matter how clean, it will crawl on your body, it will make your eyes itch. It is in these moments that ignorance of imagination makes us curse the itch, makes us think of nothing better then to take a bloody bath. But! What are you washing from your body? Is it dust? Or is it history? Which has crawled to you?
The Essay on Black Lung Disease Dust Coal Lungs
Black Lung Disease Every year, almost 1, 500 people who have worked in the nation's coalmines die from black lung disease. That's equivalent to the Titanic sinking every year, with no ships coming to the rescue. While that disaster which took place so long ago continues to fascinate the nation, black lung victims die an agonizing death in isolated rural communities, away from the spotlight of ...
As I said-I was riding a bike-it stung my eyes-I felt an itch-I closed my eyes-tried to steer by the side-got stung by an imagination-filtered into a dream-saw a flutter-and the moment has already outstretched the term “momentary”. In that lapse of time I was catapulted into an obscurity, towered by a land which can be called land. A region which stretches the term outstretched to abnormal limits. Bliss is here! There is a grand door with heavenly walls and raking winds. Creaking and breaking, the door opens, at the speed: the fastest rolling, slow speed recording camera (extra slow motion), and people march. I don�t know where I am or what I am, but I wonder if I am anything more then a particle of dust.
They came out and out and out and out and out. Heaven unleashed! There is no end to it, i thought the population of the world today was too much but believe me what I am seeing is definitely not the world today and by far from anything less then a hundred times more symmetrically crowded. I hear a scream and feel a gulf under me and hooooooooo!!!!! I am flying. The wind is taking me somewhere: history does have an absurd manner of portraying itself. I am weightless and do I use the word hell!! There are more of them coming from the other side…more and I mean moooore!
Wait!…….. aaah!!…….. I am inside now by some phenomenon known as wind tunneling i have been sucked inside the kingdom. Tell me readers! Have u seen beauty? Isn�t it something that is most potent when we are struck by love? What does beauty signify? Peace? Tranquility? Righteousness? Yes I think these and many more of the words that swirl in the tamed universe around them. Beauty is something that pierces the eyes and makes way to the heart without a single wound or scratch or the tenderest ligament tear. I think that is beauty. When you are surprised out of your senses, when elation lifts you and elevates you to a newer spectrum of thoughts where there is harmony between you and your soul. Where the heart pounces and is ready to jump out but not for the purpose of giving you an attack but to make one realize that beauty can not be seen only with the eyes and so the heart jumps out and inside again many a times till it is satisfied with the sight.
The Essay on One Voice Girl Find
I wandered onwards, the light overpowering my eyesight. Someone ahead of me was calling me to fight, to take control of what was happening. On the other hand I was weak and had hardly any strength to carry on. It was almost as if I was reanimating the little Tom & Jerry cartoons which I used to watch when I was younger. Where they had the devil telling Tom to do one thing on his right shoulder ...
What I see is far more placid then anything I witnessed out of this moment. Tall lush green trees with red flowers, red flowers with green stems, green stems that also populate the fruits of wisdom, the fruits plucked by small children and the trees are happy to be of some use to the naughty games, the children playing in innocence and ignorance, ignorance keeping all engulfed in peace, peace in the eyes of the young girl standing by the water, the water touching her feet, the young girl not sure of the sweet distant voices, the voices rushing through plenty houses, houses so beautiful that each seems to have been built in an eternity, eternity rising now and calling all to its bosom, the voice rushes though the houses with hell fire ordinance, the clouds cleared by the ordinance, the clouds cleared from a centre far from where I am, I am here and the voice echoes through the ground and shakes it, the shake produces a gentle sweeping wind, the wind carries me high again, high i go and back towards the door, the heat of the voice makes the wind warm and it sweeps from under me and the cool air tries to reach the ground, the cool air thus makes a drift cycle, in this cycle i am swimming and reach the door, where the soft gentle voice has taken to its true pitch, the pitch symbolizes the roar of a billion lions, the lions are at war!
Weapons flying, catching arms legs heads, the story of their detachment will be written in some book that will become an epic and later mythology and cause a new religion. How great is this table where this game of blood and tears is enjoyed and played with such devotion, where one door separates such wonders. On one side lies heaven and on another earth. What cajoles such, such irony? The men in this war were once the children plucking fruits, they have been wedded to responsibility of society and made numb and responsibility has heightened there thoughts to reproach. These lions will die here and news will fly like dust from under the immaculate door or over it, through the skies and tear tears out of the girl with peaceful eyes; sow and water the seeds of revenge in the girl and she will trample the water in sudden fury, and the boys will nip all fruits from the trees and sow dismay to the trees and here forth will be the beginning of the end. But there is no end to this beginning except the end of contemplation of dreams and memories.
The Essay on Red Cross War Nurse Nurses
In earlier centuries, nursing care was usually provided by men and women of various religious orders, who had little or no training. Modern nursing began in the mid-19 th century due to the Nightingale training schools for nurses. In the United States, the Spanish-American War (1898) and World War I (1914-1918) established the need for more nurses. Nursing schools increased their enrollments, and ...
I am wandering until the clouds cease to breathe and I fall form the sky and a boy, young, with a mighty sword in hand is striking his foe with a wrist of anger and looks up and the girl falls, is it a mirror? I saw my face and I entered his eyes. I go flying front wards…one bounce…two bounce…three bounce. A speck of dust-caused a moment of silence in the movement of anger-and the wrist missed its turn: in war the gift of opportunity is never left unattended. The boy was sliced and the blood from his throat spat out and as he bumped some of it went flying and sprayed drops of it in eyes and i see red…
…I am red, red all over my face, like the flower in the garden with a green shirt. There is discomfort: the voice is the same but the land has changed. The smell has changed and brings to mind a lugubrious distaste. I am light and numb, but I feel a pain, i can see a blurred environment, now my eyes are clear, now again it is blurred, the war has ended! Was it just waiting for my demise, why didn�t I know? I could have altered fate and its chapters, but i think they were written well before this day. I hear chasing at a distance as my ear is touched to the warm dusty ground, and i feel the red dust sticking to my cheeks, i feel the color of it, it is red. I seem to be flying on shoulders of a couple of people, i think they are taking me to my palace, but there are no palaces! My eyes clear again and i see my bike crushed…
The Essay on Red Ball Alexandra War German
At the age of about nine, in the year 1939, Alexandra Grochowska (my grandmother) experienced the terrors of World War 2. She lived in a town called Lodz with her parents and two sisters, one, two years older and one, two years younger. On the 1 st of September (the day that war broke out) it was warm and sunny Alexandra and her sisters, knowing the war was coming, went for a swim in the nearby ...
They say when you die your entire life flashes in front of you…so much for living a life of fantasy in this already fantastic and grave world. I am not a martyr prince of some mighty age, but a victim of a conspiracy between a particle of dust and a break-less-bus. What the dust showed me was my life, my history, and what I endured for its unwelcome admission in my eyes was my fate and a callous present. In this age we die in wars of machines in another we would have died in wars of lust senseless serpentine emotions of brotherhood. How does it matter? I am no more and the young girl is all tears and the stream at her feet was not from a distant mountain.
From dust I rose
With dust I lived
By dust I died
To dust I returned!!!
– The lost poet
