tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71545426034330287242024-03-29T14:28:39.209+11:00Aastha AgrawalAastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-10432727606434138932023-08-01T16:01:00.000+10:002023-08-01T16:01:11.063+10:00Haul of Mood - Zine <p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pfFiQzPQpiZzJ3GNouUUu_73RuF6cb6qBZWUvexBzmFpyWqkQpIwGl0D4XeK426jAbubqq-13y2q-DrwtEFASX9YY6iyhHQrOF5z1wwiYMZxn1liEAGDcTeiGZmz1ONEohT14mF4FkXKFO_GUoLlNBedOwJJRAmC287AQLK9vB2g8tlCjMPqAnvR0uo/s2160/Untitled_Artwork%207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1620" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pfFiQzPQpiZzJ3GNouUUu_73RuF6cb6qBZWUvexBzmFpyWqkQpIwGl0D4XeK426jAbubqq-13y2q-DrwtEFASX9YY6iyhHQrOF5z1wwiYMZxn1liEAGDcTeiGZmz1ONEohT14mF4FkXKFO_GUoLlNBedOwJJRAmC287AQLK9vB2g8tlCjMPqAnvR0uo/w480-h640/Untitled_Artwork%207.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My first-ever comic/ zine is here! Created over the course of 6 months, <i>Haul of Mood </i>is finally available for purchase. A little about it: <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: #dbf1da; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 24px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;"><i>Haul of Mood</i> is a short comic/ zine that aims to vividly portray my inner</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">emotional world using colour, narration, and point of view. It delves</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">into the depths of my sentimentality and how it profoundly influences</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">my day-to-day life. By sharing my thoughts and interpretations of the</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">world, I invite readers to experience the objects and moments that</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">ignite strong responses within me, even if some may perceive them as</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">dramatic or excessive.</span></div><p></p><p style="background-color: #dbf1da; box-sizing: border-box; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 24px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;"><i>Haul of Mood</i> also serves as a platform for autobiographical expression,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">portraying the self as a character through which identity is constructed</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">and depicted. The process of creating this comic was intuitive yet</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">introspective, and I believe this medium is perfectly suited to convey</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: inherit;">such an idea.</span></div><p></p><div><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />If you would like to purchase a copy, here are some details: </span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">There will be a showcase event held where the zine will debut</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Event information: </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Wednesday, August 9th 2023</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">4:00pm - 6:00pm<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The University of Melbourne<br />John Medely Building, Level 4</span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">You can use this form to put in your order for either a PDF/ soft copy version or a pre-ordered hard copy version (which will require you to pick it up from the University of Melbourne campus at a later date): <br /></span></p><p><b><u><a href="https://forms.gle/KhpM3me7QJG5PmmAA"><span style="color: #93c47d;">https://forms.gle/KhpM3me7QJG5PmmAA<br /></span></a></u></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Alternatively, if you cannot attend the event, you can put in an order using the link below (shipping available & more suited to buyers outside of Melbourne): </span></p><p><b><u><a href="https://enchantedclub.bigcartel.com/product/haul-of-mood-zine-hardcopy"><span style="color: #93c47d;">https://enchantedclub.bigcartel.com/product/haul-of-mood-zine-hardcopy</span></a><br /></u></b>You can also find this link under my 'Shop' tab.</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am super excited to be sharing this. I've spent a lot of time creating it and I hope you love it as much as I do. Thank you for your support and kindness. </span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With love, from Aastha. </span></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-59137531597515885282022-12-28T18:28:00.002+11:002023-05-30T14:30:59.787+10:00Treasure // Palindrome<p> <br /><b>Treasure</b></p><p>
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<p>X-marked treasure - home to secrets,<br />resides underneath.<br />Beginnings of mystery,<br />answering prayers.<br />Unveiling the purpose of me.</p>
<p>Me, of purpose?<br />
The unveiling prayers answering mystery of beginnings
<br />Underneath resides secrets to home<br />
Treasure marked-X. </p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p>
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<p><span style="font-size: x-small;">* The first stanza of this poem speaks of locating answers to personal identity and purpose, which are rooted in
the idea of a ‘home country’. The metaphorical treasure stands in for the lost or buried cultural practices and
traditions that’ve been erased by colonisation (of India, my home country). The stanza thus speaks of locating
this treasure, in order to achieve a clearer, more concrete understanding of my identity, to feel connected to
my roots and to find my purpose.
</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: x-small;">The second stanza then speaks of my identity, after having located this metaphorical treasure and recognising
that my purpose is indeed embedded in my culture and traditional practices. The unearthing of this treasure
works to understand that my home country, similar to my understanding of my identity and purpose were
never erased, simply buried. And like treasure, are valuable and rich. </span></p>
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</div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-52162037023489890902022-12-06T20:33:00.002+11:002023-05-30T14:31:17.713+10:00FEMine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAr1ixcstbZ1UEIXORC1w7pYNqH2d2Sf1gKHCxETedYroOdlPr_i-2OAGYaY5vH5otR2z8GwkSVyGIH9nzuQ__LeclHNK7o_ukBR_7loFa5h5uo9iuG-pUQF0AlEKpjSN2Itn3QNmsaCH3wWKxVJcsqcfgnn2IPlp2t5SjTPKS79z_PEMvs8j--o53/s1331/Thomas_Kennington_-_Homeless_(1890).jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1331" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAr1ixcstbZ1UEIXORC1w7pYNqH2d2Sf1gKHCxETedYroOdlPr_i-2OAGYaY5vH5otR2z8GwkSVyGIH9nzuQ__LeclHNK7o_ukBR_7loFa5h5uo9iuG-pUQF0AlEKpjSN2Itn3QNmsaCH3wWKxVJcsqcfgnn2IPlp2t5SjTPKS79z_PEMvs8j--o53/w578-h640/Thomas_Kennington_-_Homeless_(1890).jpeg" title="Homeless, 1890, by Thomas Benjamin Kennington" width="578" /></a></div><br /><div>
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<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>FEMine</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">phantom child, unearthly white<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">fallen in the midst of worldly cries <br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">grievous composition bound by dis-ease<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">inevitable departure</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">famine of 1890<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />predictable fault in judgement<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">arrival of maternal instinct<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">the shape of a woman<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">appearing to relieve<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />plants the kiss of death instead </span></p><p><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">* Ekphrastic poem <span style="color: #454545;">i</span>n response to Homeless, 1890, by <span style="background-color: white;">Thomas Benjamin Kennington<br />
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<p><span style="font-size: x-small;">The painting speaks of destitution and impoverishment amongst women and children in 1890s London. It depicts a widow supporting a young boy’s body who is close to death. However, the poem frames the female subject as aiding the boy by relieving him of life, as she plants the ‘kiss of death', upon his forehead. This alternative reading of the painting portrays women, not as nurturing or maternal, as society deems them to be, instead playing the role by performing a mercy killing.</span></p>
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</div></div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-37268795168240194932022-11-21T17:32:00.006+11:002023-05-30T14:31:30.107+10:00Villanelle : A Stranger's Home<p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>A Stranger's Home</b></p><p></p>
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<p>gloomy winter mornings, like a stranger’s home <br />quivering, shivering, this heart’s a frosty globe
<br />thumping against my chest, a reminder I’m all alone</p>
<p>no one here to listen to my moans and groan<br />
to hear me complain, despite the scarf around my earlobes
<br />gloomy winter mornings, like a stranger’s home
</p>
<p>will it ever simmer down? or will this feeling be forever unknown?
<br />I think, some bourbon right now would be pretty dope...
<br />thumping against my chest, a reminder I’m all alone
</p>
<p>looking for a way back, there’s no reception on the phone
<br />failing to locate anyone nearby, perhaps it’s best to lose hope
<br />gloomy winter mornings, like a stranger’s home
</p>
<p>this fog, the brisk mist, I feel it in my bones<br />
no one to hold on to, it’s up to me to be able to cope
<br />thumping against my chest, a reminder I’m all alone
</p>
<p>such loneliness... in it, must I roam?<br />
to stop and wait? that idea screams nope!<br />
gloomy winter mornings, like a stranger’s home
<br />thumping against my chest, a reminder I’m all alone<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">*This villanelle comprises nineteen lines- five stanzas of three lines each and one closing stanza of four
lines. It follows an ABA, ABA, ABA, ABA, ABA, ABAA rhyme scheme with line 1 repeating in lines 6, 12,
and 18 and line 3 repeating in lines 9, 15, and 19. It speaks of winter, and its tendency to make you feel alone, comparable to being in a stranger’s home, tapping into humour as the protagonist ‘goes mad’ amongst the descending temperature. </span></p>
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</div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-21289177678033834422022-09-18T17:29:00.004+10:002023-07-25T15:08:44.599+10:00Red<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKTgp8ogintm3KsQmoGOePnPR612ZqnxVxrbY1ENyJ1_P6oh31j32cGE5jJTuUfvyR1ZCs7zwzWUjff3HwK3uVAeWcr4hzKuQPFq_M6lA8tl8VgXhs-2RCk-xTKWLiCD2syKIxVN1YXeAoOoLPYax4DAQvWg1CWw-7-3esY7ZZ-14iNQkF1D0BsLo/s1170/C415080D-6365-41B8-9B5C-C253A13149CC.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="1170" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKTgp8ogintm3KsQmoGOePnPR612ZqnxVxrbY1ENyJ1_P6oh31j32cGE5jJTuUfvyR1ZCs7zwzWUjff3HwK3uVAeWcr4hzKuQPFq_M6lA8tl8VgXhs-2RCk-xTKWLiCD2syKIxVN1YXeAoOoLPYax4DAQvWg1CWw-7-3esY7ZZ-14iNQkF1D0BsLo/w640-h640/C415080D-6365-41B8-9B5C-C253A13149CC.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />Up close, </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">she thought about how his hairline made an ‘M’ shape on his larger-than-ideal</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> forehead. He was too young to be losing hair, and it made her think about stupid stuff like
genetics and whether their kids would lose their hair that early on. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Whether her contrastingly small forehead would mean that they’d create the </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">perfect-sized forehead-ed children. Whether they would grow into their teen years, become conscious
of their looks and start to recognise that they were a result of them.</span></p><div class="page" title="Page 1"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column">
<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">She ran her finger down the bridge of his nose, careful to trace it out as it was, close
to the bone, to solidify in her mind, his sculpture. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">She was cautious of how the rest of her fingers fell on his face, making sure only the
pointer sensed the warmth of him. Over the peaks of his eyebrow, his chin and then
outlining his face. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Never even coming close to acknowledging his lips. That would be weird. That would
make it real.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">With his eyes closed though, she knew she was granted permission to decipher what
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">made them so pink. It reminded her of an old friend, who’d once told her it w</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">as tradition in
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">their culture to wipe babies’ lips with a red cloth. It would stain them pink, make them more
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">beautiful. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">She thought about how his mother probably didn’t do that, yet he was beautiful. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It relayed in her mind the hues of blossoming flowers and the
embodiment of love that the Perth sky would paint every dawn. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">As his mouth parted gently, she felt he knew his lips were on her mind.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The sight of them made her ponder, how even his most mundane actions, so
inconsequential, reminded her of home. A slight sigh and it would be as though mimicking a
soft breeze, embedded in tunes of Swades</span><span style="font-family: 'Times,Italic'; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">and igniting nostalgia within.
</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Inching infusion of blush, overtaking the outer-most cartilage of his ears and seeping
into his cheeks, it confirmed to her that her gaze was more stinging, more apparent than she
ought it to be. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">She felt a voice tug at her own, and with sudden shamelessness, she planted a kiss on
his neck. Caught up at the pure sight of him, she had no control over her true instincts, like
flinching at the heat of a fire.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gentle, her lips pressed onto his cold and risen skin. He exhaled at this, and it was
louder than his sigh. She raised her eyes to meet his. A deep-</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">sea blue... how cliché.
</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">In that very moment, with a single swift movement, she placed her hand and pressed
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">down on the highest, most prominent, point of his Adam’s apple. Releasing her other side,
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">she forced her entire weight onto her hand around his throat, whilst reaching the other one
into the elastic of her waistband.
</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A short metal instrument, spear-shaped, she jabbed it into his neck. Months in
confinement had given her enough time to think about weapons and to shave down the </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">handle of a spoon, sharpening it; tying threads she’d pull out her smock, o</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ver the mouth of
the spoon, for grip. </span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" title="Page 3"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Red is a piece of flash fiction that attempts to shock the reader and have them go “I can never </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">rea</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">d it like I did the first time”. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It employs poetic prose to situate the audience in the </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">protagonist’s mindset and colour to hint at, and bind the past, present and future.</span></i></p>
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</div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-62031171165628168982022-07-06T16:38:00.004+10:002023-05-30T14:32:00.747+10:00Remembering in Descent <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_AnEEOQ1FUQKC6RPXRH5FJG0TiUpsisDX8DksQIaNm3swqDd4mw-lXbgE-jahCN60CBIEaJiWIAB3NP8TpqpbJItqzz0APKlFoMuH0aqVVHzqEYI1VNrnK6jvrpLMU8RRCiRede64Wi6cWKgJPbIeVklKw57h_bcEUzkY6AkDdKHkl_KaqeWzzIh/s2090/IMG_8744%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2090" data-original-width="2078" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_AnEEOQ1FUQKC6RPXRH5FJG0TiUpsisDX8DksQIaNm3swqDd4mw-lXbgE-jahCN60CBIEaJiWIAB3NP8TpqpbJItqzz0APKlFoMuH0aqVVHzqEYI1VNrnK6jvrpLMU8RRCiRede64Wi6cWKgJPbIeVklKw57h_bcEUzkY6AkDdKHkl_KaqeWzzIh/w636-h640/IMG_8744%202.jpg" width="636" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>Hands clasped around ashy silvers as she descended with desperation.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> <br /><br /></span></span></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Long days spent glued onto the egg-shaped chair with wooden legs, her focus shifting between screens and people. Trapped inside her head, enclosed within four walls painted in ‘Cloud White’, made it difficult to believe in anything. Strained, the veins in her temples felt as though they’ve been played tug-a-war with. Her feet on stilts on every embark towards the coffee station, barely ever in contact with the Earth under her.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">In opposition to this, she now gradually sank, hypnotised by the scent of the freshly bathed Earth as her fingers dug into burrows emerging below her palms, pleading to be penetrated, asking to be whole again. Selfless. Balancing. Inviting. Inching away from grounds on which lay plastic wrappers, disposable cups and masks, away from the tainted surfaces that were unable to escape harm, and beyond the stenches of artificiality.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">She had come across this place as a child. A neglectful, neurotic caretaker and the fear of being indoors, in captivity, had often led to her wandering about and gallivanting in the vast expanse of the rural backyard of the foster homes - something she was often told off for, yet felt compelled, as if she needed to be outside, under the sky, her hands and feet feeling, treading the Earth.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">It wasn’t until she was six or so, that she’d been placed in a home on the outskirts of the city. The vast expanse making a better playmate than any toy or imaginary friend could; when on one of her countless adventures into the wilderness, away from assigned chores and the screaming, screeching of her brothers and sisters, she’d been led, by her intuition, to a cave. She was sure it hadn’t been there before, but she was a forgetful, wicked child, or at least she’d been told so. Never a fearful one, however, and upon approaching the entrance, she felt instinctually a sense of home. Whatever that had meant, a sense of belonging perhaps.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Peering closer, she’d realised what she had thought to be a cave, descended abruptly into a hollow. Almost a vertical tunnel. A natural shaft. On the edge of which she sat, wondering what lay at the bottom. Inching closer and closer, as if to get a clearer idea of what was calling to her from inside. The roof of the cave had several openings, through which she could see the trees above, however, it was too late in the day and the sun didn’t shine through, unhelpful in her quest.<br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">“Out again?! Dirty, uncivilised child. How many times must I tell you to walk on your legs, not on all fours! You aren’t an animal! Where are your manners? Look at how dirty your knees and hands are, what are you doing? Get back inside, now!”</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Startled, she’d stood up on her feet abruptly. Dusting off the mud on her hands and making her way towards the carer. One glance back and there had been nothing. No cave, no hollow, no descent.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Decades passed, now uprooting patience, she longed only for one thing. Nippy mist on her brows and the tip of her nose, like kisses from an invisible lover. Sedated by dimming light, she held her being close to the edges of the hollow. Her warm breath formed dew on raw stone and vines which mimicked veins. Sand, gravel and silt embed themselves into her, relieved at her touch, unwilling to let go again. She pressed herself, further into the walls of the hollow. Consolidating. Reassuring. She was here now.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Her toes greeted the emerald moss, sending tingles up her legs. Life relinquishing in them, and generously returning to her the sensations she was deprived of in the constraints of the carpet-lined floors, faux leather stilettos and cotton socks. Unbothered by her person, rather yielding, the ground came alive, sculpting and enveloping her feet as if treating an abused animal.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>Grounded and sunken, she stood seduced by the silhouettes of trees that hung higher than ever. Closing her eyes, chin tilted toward the sky as if kissing the phantom of the heavens. She remained stagnant, basking in the moon’s generosity to glaze what it glanced.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span>Regardless of how much time had passed, the sense of belonging she’s felt stumbling upon the hollow all those years ago, was still present. She could hear the soft whispers again, calling to her, enticing her. Sounds of relief emanated from roots and plants for she had found her way back. </span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">All those years that she’d spent amongst what was deemed a ‘civilised society’, having learnt to walk upright, shave, speak in words, follow rules, fit into the shape of a working human, had faded away and blurred instinctual desire. The civilised society especially loved the fact that she’d grown up with a not-so-great background, that she was different, yet had succumbed to, and become a successful independent individual. She had a desk job, an apartment, a car, what else could she ever want? What other life would she have rather chosen, especially for someone who had nothing, to begin with?</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span>The years of moulding and shaping had attempted to obscure the truth, to detach her. But she had always had everything to begin with, it just didn’t align with what everyone else wanted for her, with what they thought was the only way to live. She was a child not born to be tamed, a soul so connected to the Earth, she didn’t need much else to live off. All are born this way. Pure forms. Another creation of the marvellous Earth, a gift in the form of life. A gift of experiencing emotions, of connecting and strengthening bonds. </span><span>The gift of existing, inclusive of all needs, obtainable from the ground underneath, from other beings.</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">But most don’t. By the time humans are of age, they’re so far removed from their natural instincts, they don’t seek out other ways of being, the true way of being. They continue to live in sanctioned spaces, plots of land rented or bought, on artificially cultivated food barely holding true flavour or value, away from wild animals who don’t have the ability to understand economics or politics or write on paper and script ideas. They continue to live thinking they are above all other, that other is for their own benefit, that other has no value but to serve them.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">However, some manage to slip through the cracks. Those whose upbringing diverts from the mainstream, leaving a gap somewhere in early development where they are left to their own devices, to form their own thoughts and let their instincts guide them. A case that had been for her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">She’d been left on her own a lot, without much guidance, without much direction. It had led to her discovering the hollow, at a young age. A miracle she came across when she was closest to her form as an animal, when she was pure and unaware of what her kind was capable of. She hadn’t been taught to fear, she hadn’t been restricted, she hadn’t changed much since her birth. She had accepted the hollow until she was torn away from it abruptly, punished for lying about it and shunned for talking about it as if it were real. For years after, she shut out any thought of it.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Buried under learning social cues, how to do taxes, which lip colour suited her the best and how she could make the most money. Every year, she’d part more and more from what she had seen, from the feeling of belonging. She had made herself believe that it could be found in all these other things everyone else was always doing. She just had to be like them. She just had to fit in and then it’d all be okay. She learnt to speak properly enough to get by, to dress well enough to look presentable, work enough to survive and act normal enough to fit in.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">But as time went on, glimpses of the hollow and her encounter with it seeped back in. Every time she’d go on a walk, the urge to get on all fours was so strong. She felt she could speak to birds more fluently than she could with other humans. She believed what she’d seen, what she’d felt; and although for years she’d tried to see it from others’ perspective, to see things ‘logically’, she knew they were wrong. How could the cows, the lizards, foxes, whales, how could their presence be solely to live on instinct, to live off the Earth and pleasantly? How could they know their place, stick together and work whilst harming no other? What was so special, so different, about humans? Why did we have rules and expectations and milestones? Why did we think we were better than the other animals, to the point we kill them and destroy their homes?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">For several years after this, she had retreated, after acting ‘human’, to some bushland, under a tree in some forest, anywhere that didn’t feel fake. She’d been civilised, long enough to seem ‘sane’, act out her sanctioned duties as a part of society and then leave to be with the Earth alone. She would dig with her hands, burrows, pile up leaves for comfort, and feed off the plants around her. Until it was daylight, and time to act normal again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Unlike looming and never-ending worries about deadlines, due dates and to-dos, branches held on instinctually to their leaves, letting go of them when it was necessary. She had always envied this tradition of theirs, the culture of tress, their routine, their forgiveness and understanding.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">After another long day at work, she had wandered into the darkness of the forest that lay a few kilometres out of the city. Sniffing the ground, inhaling the perfumes of the Earth, letting the mud lodge between her nails. A slight hum had perked up her ears. Sounds of home, true belonging after years. It didn’t matter why it’d taken so long to reappear. It wasn’t her place to question the thing that’d given her birth. It was back, it’s all that held weight and she trusted it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">She sat at the bottom of the hollow, focusing on the distant chirps of crickets that rested on grounds above her head, their faint yet consistent voice was soothing. At odds with the noises she heard all day, the click-clack-clacking keyboards, these chirp-chirp-chirps seemed to make more sense. Leaning against nested roots, her back slumped upon weed rendered walls. The unevenness against her spine, contrasted the fabricated smoothness of plastic chairs, reminding her she was real, capable of sensations garnered from non-human creation.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Her eyes became heavy, gently shutting. A calmness overarching. With each exhale, she sensed her worries swell up and erupt into forms of figures, fragranced with ease.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">The wind swished through the hollow, carolling prayers in languages foreign to those above. Her head was lighter than ever as tranquillity settled and softly, roots of Neem trees confined and submerged in soil walls, unravelled, crept around and over her, braiding, gently caressing her hair, tucking strands behind her ears and guiding her off her feet, lowering her to the heart of the ground.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Her hands now on either side of her person, on the spongy, soft, slightly damp floor, hydrated her rough palms, washing away some mud and the blue inked notes she’d made. Her cheek rested to the side, meeting the moistened, cool wall which bled water that she drank, recognising it as Tulsi, its spicy and minty-sweetness seeping into and relinquishing her. A welcome, a token of celebration and auspicious return.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Sunken now in the deep crevice she felt as if she were in a womb, lay huddled up, in the purest form. An escape, after hours under fluorescent lights and the mountainous desktop home screen, this was the only place she could imagine being. A vertical tunnel that formed so deep as if to get away from all ‘realities’.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Untouched and unaltered by the human being, where reside scents devoid of kerosene, coffee beans or burning down trees.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Laying encased in roots, close to the heart of the Earth, she could almost hear it beating. Mud and sediments lodged between her toes. Matching the tone of her skin and amongst the gentle drizzle, she began to weep. For she felt a freedom like never before. To water seeds of resentment that bloomed acceptance, to shed with the Earth, feverishly. To be one with another who had been hurting for as long as she could remember. To hold one another, away from all that kept selfishly wounding them both, breeding heathen and savagery, yet still expecting them to act sensibly.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Eye to eye, here, underneath the real, civilised world, she lay amongst the burrows of past lives. Adjacent to her body, feeling for the souls that rested. Souls of animals that had been removed from their homes, killed to accommodate human endeavours of road constructions and apartment buildings. Souls of animals like herself, who respected the Earth, lived harmoniously but were shunned for rejecting modernity. Souls of insects and bugs and all creatures that were considered pests, but kept the humans alive, and maintained, to the best of their ability the nature of things.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Sinking further into the ground, the roots and branches holding her dearly, rendering the concept of time obsolete and from within her skin emerged ferns and delicate petals. Her hair, slowly binding together, glistening a greenish hue and resembling vines. Her veins like soft stems, the tips of her fingers and toes sprouting fungi and emerging from her ears large leaves.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">The sun peeking through from above indicated it was time to be back. Time to return. Warm light hit her torso and she sighed with relief. The bark of her skin, rejuvenating, she’d never felt such a thing. Emanating from the pores of her skin, sprouts. From her mouth, on her tongue grew Tulsi buds. Lodging themselves between her teeth, creepers finding their way out and emerging from her nostrils, crimson and saffron bulbs.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">She had never felt more alive. Never felt this connectedness. The soft whispers now resided within her, a soft hum that synced with her heartbeat, with the Earth and with which she could close her eyes one last time and simply be.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Short story by Aastha/ Enchanted Club/ A2</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-13277217989033876392022-04-26T17:09:00.005+10:002023-05-30T14:32:22.689+10:00aasthameow<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijSzvOfcyCp5gqFZU6dCXITSAe3Qi9cAO1ZPfvebj4QT-P_ITRux2CyNSaJCS5ej9ZiG--yZ-S4FHzChvR3XoqKEvNnwQa8GUx-VUjcXRVxAMTyjgUc0CVNoZtKFAMXvlOCkrWwaguYUdzqA77PhooogcwFy0P-ij5IrS_pqQYdnCz-kC4RyDPxd38/s1170/IMG_7735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="1170" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijSzvOfcyCp5gqFZU6dCXITSAe3Qi9cAO1ZPfvebj4QT-P_ITRux2CyNSaJCS5ej9ZiG--yZ-S4FHzChvR3XoqKEvNnwQa8GUx-VUjcXRVxAMTyjgUc0CVNoZtKFAMXvlOCkrWwaguYUdzqA77PhooogcwFy0P-ij5IrS_pqQYdnCz-kC4RyDPxd38/w640-h468/IMG_7735.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-59573749219955277752021-12-17T11:44:00.006+11:002023-05-30T14:32:33.587+10:00Not Inept<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihDri3eNSKaCCfnLyoBODSVSOnham-5gXv76yZ9i04QgqCUO2x2-DgGTDsbIjHKXqUpDmHsZdjyjiKiplp0kJ1FF0eGcjs_Zlktt1pypBzkEb1QwQZ9Bqhp-YZE5Dc_OTaKXFSM_kBCEo_VIxddkyuorSaMAB71Q-u3tz-ij8Z2gqlB3bdpLIAQry6=s3508" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3508" data-original-width="2480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihDri3eNSKaCCfnLyoBODSVSOnham-5gXv76yZ9i04QgqCUO2x2-DgGTDsbIjHKXqUpDmHsZdjyjiKiplp0kJ1FF0eGcjs_Zlktt1pypBzkEb1QwQZ9Bqhp-YZE5Dc_OTaKXFSM_kBCEo_VIxddkyuorSaMAB71Q-u3tz-ij8Z2gqlB3bdpLIAQry6=w452-h640" width="452" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">I reside in the space between </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">adjusting and nomadic </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">Existing within liminality</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">laced with transcendence </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">Floating above consciousness </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">yet close enough to form shadows</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">Each waking day I worry, </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">my eyes will shut close </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">Unknowing of my place in the world</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">loosened grip on the pen <br /><br />Enclosed and enveloped </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">in wrath, at the sake of my ept. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-small;">- a2</span></div><p></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-85370075622138707192021-12-11T12:39:00.004+11:002023-05-30T14:32:43.524+10:00Mime, mine. <p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirK6yI8FzfCCH4eZrUT_mLudm0rjQAGOszyee1JPYw6-8b6mQxz3ffhiAFOWSdjEjoOYlx__jfOUl77mPplhpzjqS9z-93gJx7oxOQTnewRdVa0UlWvIegS8HbI3q88dWxtSCWOLv50RnabLQEdVe2woj7WvIpH5_6R2njDKHiDB5mAaTHtJG2dC-_=s820" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="242" data-original-width="820" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirK6yI8FzfCCH4eZrUT_mLudm0rjQAGOszyee1JPYw6-8b6mQxz3ffhiAFOWSdjEjoOYlx__jfOUl77mPplhpzjqS9z-93gJx7oxOQTnewRdVa0UlWvIegS8HbI3q88dWxtSCWOLv50RnabLQEdVe2woj7WvIpH5_6R2njDKHiDB5mAaTHtJG2dC-_=s16000" /></a></div><span style="font-family: courier;">I cannot say what I want to say</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: courier;"> <br /></span><span style="font-family: courier;">and that holds me back</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: courier;"> </span></div><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">I cannot express all the thoughts in my head<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">my mouth is bound by a clasp</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">I cannot scream at the top of my lungs<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">spew out all the hatred from my blood<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">I cannot even scribe my emotions</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">that’s just not how it works<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <br /><br /></span></span></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">My fingertips feel as though</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">they’ve been hammered down <span class="Apple-converted-space"> <br /><br /></span></span></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Paralysing me<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">stripping me of the only thing</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">That has kept me alive for all this time<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">altering my identity to a mime<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">I worry I cannot hold onto this any longer<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">the noise within is deafening<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">But the problem lies outside<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">as the tape holding my mouth shut tight<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Reflects the silence<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">onto the other side<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Now the only place my thoughts<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">emotions and feelings reside<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Lay beside<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">one other in darkness<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Never to be known<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;">and me, to forever be alone<span style="text-align: center;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><span style="text-align: center;">-a2</span></span></div><p></p><p></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-56554997497785816642021-10-10T15:26:00.007+11:002023-05-30T14:32:53.441+10:00Fae Escape <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="text-align: left;">All I want is to escape into a magical fairy garden land where I can bask in the sun as I let delicate stems of wildflowers tingle my palms. I crave for the days when the warmth on my cacao skin seeps deep within, reminding me of my power. The shades of green and hues of blue entangled with the subtle glistening of light reflecting off of dragonfly wings and the kisses of heavenly breeze ignites serenity that was long thought to be lost. In one singular moment, I am at peace, I am free and I am me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82yFRepjLSX466tEmmj_uyt8WXvjU3M5C4SErIGdPoc4bgsDALMXWQ3CQYAhumPQrVtttGF1iLMUEBpKMa1M5sae_NGue8GljWWWfr3ijgpMSUlGcrlWUP-SXulSXSrDEuZzed3O92I0/s2048/Untitled_Artwork+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82yFRepjLSX466tEmmj_uyt8WXvjU3M5C4SErIGdPoc4bgsDALMXWQ3CQYAhumPQrVtttGF1iLMUEBpKMa1M5sae_NGue8GljWWWfr3ijgpMSUlGcrlWUP-SXulSXSrDEuZzed3O92I0/w640-h640/Untitled_Artwork+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Swinging Vines. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2u_n8jdUmTCtlVfqtk9q1wYbgDOAIekjU20gHI6j51dTOe_U4Oe5TSjOi7IzKKDO78UearZE6WQ-MljW9pZSev8KTxvYQDHHkrW4qc6aoOUotpozwg5LCiO4zvOtPY8VsKIxZb_vsi0/s2048/Untitled_Artwork+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG2u_n8jdUmTCtlVfqtk9q1wYbgDOAIekjU20gHI6j51dTOe_U4Oe5TSjOi7IzKKDO78UearZE6WQ-MljW9pZSev8KTxvYQDHHkrW4qc6aoOUotpozwg5LCiO4zvOtPY8VsKIxZb_vsi0/w640-h640/Untitled_Artwork+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mushyroom. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi45PN8VswfXH2XtZ1TbOKP0nJo2rMQno7ua9NBUWwTrBdzreDHfFsFgMBWJlLKh87D2PbFB5F8DE_dLLf5Eeq9ZLcAznAJto9bvibSudPORcx0WE6FPuUGfzTWS1HluRoSFNfy2N91v6k/s2048/Untitled_Artwork+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi45PN8VswfXH2XtZ1TbOKP0nJo2rMQno7ua9NBUWwTrBdzreDHfFsFgMBWJlLKh87D2PbFB5F8DE_dLLf5Eeq9ZLcAznAJto9bvibSudPORcx0WE6FPuUGfzTWS1HluRoSFNfy2N91v6k/w640-h640/Untitled_Artwork+3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">By The Corner. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOmvaK5aednMX1FCL2TEs8FwztkLjsDRZhy4eYItVcq89KTr1N-1KndzoiTeM7tAHw5lsNl6nPQz9cecACQ3-_CeUDY9FTafoI60XMrc87jTRzXue5k9s9sEiAwSQYmM9ON_cir25gIFc/s2048/Untitled_Artwork+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOmvaK5aednMX1FCL2TEs8FwztkLjsDRZhy4eYItVcq89KTr1N-1KndzoiTeM7tAHw5lsNl6nPQz9cecACQ3-_CeUDY9FTafoI60XMrc87jTRzXue5k9s9sEiAwSQYmM9ON_cir25gIFc/w640-h640/Untitled_Artwork+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Drenched in Serenity. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGNnLyDgI1imQ2FHnhhEP5ihNeSH0RqBEScln9OAXlLtgJByMP7m8Gbga_nYgZrOVxaiXbmYXjVKSKkhWwpYQhoYbmSnzksYbTnqqmyJH19o5l5hBth4oHN7QBytIIsgVQHoa0HnjY_Xc/s2048/Untitled_Artwork.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGNnLyDgI1imQ2FHnhhEP5ihNeSH0RqBEScln9OAXlLtgJByMP7m8Gbga_nYgZrOVxaiXbmYXjVKSKkhWwpYQhoYbmSnzksYbTnqqmyJH19o5l5hBth4oHN7QBytIIsgVQHoa0HnjY_Xc/w640-h640/Untitled_Artwork.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">When I Lay. </span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><h3 style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://enchantedclub.bigcartel.com/product/fae-escape-collection" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: courier; font-size: x-large;">Fae Escape Collection</span></a><br /><br /></h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: right;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvKibxZT8UMcH90uzpM5mb6BUPAEGzxlhB3AEfHTfhEDYG-4vVt1igpy-XrbdmeYDy-WH_cQeDXoWfO598Um_MqCTnfK-l8jPaTJVJG3KQmvx4GbB5ryoGMyFF9u87TORydBJvPHFIkPs/s2000/Retro.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2000" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvKibxZT8UMcH90uzpM5mb6BUPAEGzxlhB3AEfHTfhEDYG-4vVt1igpy-XrbdmeYDy-WH_cQeDXoWfO598Um_MqCTnfK-l8jPaTJVJG3KQmvx4GbB5ryoGMyFF9u87TORydBJvPHFIkPs/w320-h274/Retro.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn7Kfnq9fdRYnGspRNTlZn44Y2UeBcsQHvOS4GjfwdpLEXFolQyJLk4d0tcn0-1cLjOQpkngBABmW9X6rGWU-WeG_QY3eAnK83upqtGcQ9yn4G1PuHbAZ4v0TbXfsyXH-w_yDju28fBgQ/s633/Screen+Shot+2021-10-10+at+3.27.51+pm.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span>Looking for an escape from the four walls of my room but with nowhere to go to - <br />I remember the littlest joys reside in nature.</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span>With these five illustrations, I wanted to captivate my love for the greens that emerge from Earth and the life they provide.</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span>I've started to believe my muse is Mother Earth.</span></div></span><span style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: right;">To support my work/ purchase my artwork as prints and more, click <a href="https://enchantedclub.bigcartel.com/product/fae-escape-collection">here</a>.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">A<b style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: left;">²</b></div></div></span></div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-47167302995852122502021-09-14T15:35:00.002+10:002023-05-30T14:33:06.312+10:00Notes dispersed<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiyFxJwUWwSIH_MNB9EdK4PmeQEWZkitk8iktHWIC33AbtmfDQ1kyzjyYH2siXMFvVjrvTp7IMsl9L4Hewgk-s9wimre_XCOX4CL662HJsY6OKPXiOs6itD2bbe8MiBFngc76kRITD3s/s2048/Untitled_Artwork+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiyFxJwUWwSIH_MNB9EdK4PmeQEWZkitk8iktHWIC33AbtmfDQ1kyzjyYH2siXMFvVjrvTp7IMsl9L4Hewgk-s9wimre_XCOX4CL662HJsY6OKPXiOs6itD2bbe8MiBFngc76kRITD3s/w640-h640/Untitled_Artwork+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymG24zz-MpAQHRjDvPM1VP5NCqGt789wt-tF6ebcrFDXnK2lLNJYABd6MClEFKa_qGP5_Lb9G3Oj3YjianiIEwtWy6eLbIcJi3TDS_vfHj7n0id2nat6ggWlRxzUW7LUId42vuV94kSQ/s2048/IMG_0290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1829" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymG24zz-MpAQHRjDvPM1VP5NCqGt789wt-tF6ebcrFDXnK2lLNJYABd6MClEFKa_qGP5_Lb9G3Oj3YjianiIEwtWy6eLbIcJi3TDS_vfHj7n0id2nat6ggWlRxzUW7LUId42vuV94kSQ/w572-h640/IMG_0290.jpg" width="572" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">x</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-o0g4XshqyuG5AZhrdZsCAkFgIRdHsOfbMR14PYdZ5NJW2YYMmFPX-t7y5gto-KQMTk2A3ceWuRektWGfWUCbdJMVfR4k66agjVT2PY2GjxpIYGB3SrQbjnfN26qctpzpDKQ7pTmF5vc/s2048/IMG_0291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-o0g4XshqyuG5AZhrdZsCAkFgIRdHsOfbMR14PYdZ5NJW2YYMmFPX-t7y5gto-KQMTk2A3ceWuRektWGfWUCbdJMVfR4k66agjVT2PY2GjxpIYGB3SrQbjnfN26qctpzpDKQ7pTmF5vc/w453-h640/IMG_0291.JPG" width="453" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">x</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82EChsxUJtZtVLu2OYJq3iskrEJ55DY3Bsp-DNmYKKfaL-bL3tK2fbXUA59rJ4q-R044-qqvlZYHMY1RvhTAc-I4kcAXpLLmJliQBHuHNPdp2_qXmrpZ3Fl7v0-MngfdrqrmnHTipxdw/s2048/IMG_0292.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1506" data-original-width="2048" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82EChsxUJtZtVLu2OYJq3iskrEJ55DY3Bsp-DNmYKKfaL-bL3tK2fbXUA59rJ4q-R044-qqvlZYHMY1RvhTAc-I4kcAXpLLmJliQBHuHNPdp2_qXmrpZ3Fl7v0-MngfdrqrmnHTipxdw/w640-h470/IMG_0292.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">Hope you are well.<br /><br />Love, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">A<b style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;">²</b></div><p></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-57981575461202573122021-09-07T18:25:00.002+10:002023-05-30T14:33:16.661+10:00Him<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Xp9ShvcZ8mnERCCphWFk5Ea08nhBh-2pmJaNth3hg7brYuS1zW4mapL2SUoNwxFrx2ceUq60U-LJuQ8B8ulsnAh-4-sW1HRXRdwqFNgNC2jFD3ZvvOnkfQlHbjjAc7mX7FdMArVjoMA/s605/Screen+Shot+2021-09-07+at+6.21.34+pm.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Xp9ShvcZ8mnERCCphWFk5Ea08nhBh-2pmJaNth3hg7brYuS1zW4mapL2SUoNwxFrx2ceUq60U-LJuQ8B8ulsnAh-4-sW1HRXRdwqFNgNC2jFD3ZvvOnkfQlHbjjAc7mX7FdMArVjoMA/s16000/Screen+Shot+2021-09-07+at+6.21.34+pm.png" /></a></div><p></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-13450614268421925692021-08-07T15:08:00.004+10:002023-05-30T14:33:36.032+10:00Women in Asian Cinema <p><b style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Role and treatment of women in House of Flying Daggers (2004) and Mother (2009)</span></b><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This research essay will critically discuss the role and treatment of women in national cinema, namely Zhang Yimou’s, 2004, <i>House of Flying Daggers</i> and Bong Joon-ho’s, 2009, <i>Mother</i>. I will attempt to identify, define and research the characterisation and portrayal of women within contrasting settings and depictions, as well as provide general commentary on the patriarchy and feminism. With the aid of literary resources, I aim to showcase the influence and effectiveness of qualities and attributes within a character brief that consequently provokes discussions about authentic or fair representation. Throughout the essay, I will be highlighting problematic traits and unjust circumstances enforced upon Xiaomei in <i>House of Flying Daggers</i>, whilst pointing out the differences, persuading readers of the power that strong female protagonists hold, generated in the portrayal of Mother in Bong Joon-ho’s <i>Mother</i>, consequently, commenting on the male gaze and the oppression of women. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The aim of this essay is to dismantle misogynistic ideologies and to encourage writers and film directors, to create deeper, broader, and a greater variety of roles for women in cinema, as well as expanding the range and diversity of women represented on-screen to accurately represent real-life and real people; to stray away from the over-done, obvious, cliché characterisation of females that often oppresses them, offends their power and demeans their capabilities. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymEcCkZFgl2k0YieM52S53XOaVKv7RnKACWphqmm-gZzHi9zMCcdCnllDa2el6wulc4l6Tf8-vnBS2yG4HD3T5xSYmYmAH62QJ1Ra2goPLXBiNKO4k8W1_olbJbhonqrhDFIFElVYHJ0/s1080/sphe-house_of_flying_daggers_2004-Full-Image_GalleryBackground-en-US-1611224308584._SX1080_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1080" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymEcCkZFgl2k0YieM52S53XOaVKv7RnKACWphqmm-gZzHi9zMCcdCnllDa2el6wulc4l6Tf8-vnBS2yG4HD3T5xSYmYmAH62QJ1Ra2goPLXBiNKO4k8W1_olbJbhonqrhDFIFElVYHJ0/w640-h360/sphe-house_of_flying_daggers_2004-Full-Image_GalleryBackground-en-US-1611224308584._SX1080_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Firstly, focusing on <i>House of Flying Daggers’</i> protagonist Xiaomei, although characterised as strong, capable, and loyal, is thrown right into a male-dominated setting with no granted permission to her own anatomy. Introduced in the brothel scene, she is immediately subject to harassment as Jin lunges at her, ripping her clothes. Barely 10 minutes into the film and it is already evident that there is going to be no justice served as authorities march in and victim-blame Xiaomei for being assaulted. Additionally, from the get-go, it is indisputable that Xiaomei’s appearance will assist in the development and direction of the plot, however only restricted through a male gaze that objectifies her, stripping her of her agency. Time and again Xiaomei is depicted as a damsel in distress, a helpless girl that needs the protection of men, despite all supporting characters haven seen her dagger-work and are aware of her (presumed) status and skill. This ongoing rinse and repeat agenda is regulated by a constant need to depict Xiaomei as an object of desire, and the male characters, namely Jin and Leo, as the embodiment of strength and masculinity, patronizes and belittles any sense of individualism or unique characteristics Xiaomei inhibits.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In fact, this slow-burn-type of plot progression, where the oppression imposed upon Xiaomei increases, eventually completely disconnects from the original grounds of motive - finding the new leader of the House of Flying Daggers, as by the end of the film there is no resolution to the original objective, which was to kill the new leader. Rather, it amounts to a disappointing love triangle affair which, too, results in the worst outcome for Xiaomei as she is killed, with no consequences for any of the male characters. Leo tries to force himself upon Xiaomei, but she’s the one that gets killed because she refused his advances. Jin requires saving, but Xiaomei is tricked to her death in the name of sacrifice and true love. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Attempts to form commentary, contrary to this argument based on having given Xiaomei permission ‘despite’ her gender in the film adaptation <i>House of Flying Daggers </i>set in the Tang Dynasty, as compared to her much more oppressed characterization in the original poem by Li Yannian which was set in the Han Dynasty (Ya-Chen, 2005) is an unnoteworthy discourse. To ‘offer’ women “greater freedom” (Ya-Chen, 2005) to do things such as “socialize with men in public” (Ya-Chen, 2005) and not have “strict rules for women’s virginity and chastity” (Ya-Chen, 2005) is nothing to commend. Usually, adaptations or remakes come into existence to re-do plots with a contemporary audience in mind, however, Zhang Yimou’s <i>House of Flying Daggers </i>rather uses this as an excuse to unnecessarily sexualize and close in on appearance and a love-story based plot, further accentuating restrictions often enforced upon womens’ autonomy and the representation of females through a male perspective. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This discussion is further supported by film critics such as McGuire’s (2019) dissection of Yimou’s filmmaking; that although Yimou is undoubtedly a masterful filmmaker, it is undeniable that his films position women as the “lower species” (McGuire, 2019). It is also noted that Yimou values actresses that access the ‘male gaze’ as means to advantage their character, however then only of benefit to the male audience as the “determining male gaze projects its fantasy onto the female figure that is styled accordingly” (McGuire, 2019) and “the gaze is built upon culturally defined notions of sexual difference” (McGuire, 2019). </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Overall, attempts to depict Xiaomei within the femme fatale troupe ends up rather being a ‘manic-pixie-dream girl’ persona: a woman who is skilled, beautiful, and confident, only to then rid her of her strength, position her purely on the basis of her sexuality and in opposition to men who use her to their advantage and then killing her off, results in a frustrating viewing of this film. It neither accurately represents real-life women or the extent of their capabilities, nor conveys a consistent plot from which a moral can be elicited. It instead almost seems to fulfil a twisted fantasy and desire to keep women oppressed, especially if they are strong.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGsFHEzwPjDCxacyhodNhlQ4wytmVUi2M7H59ZCGKp1Aix_QflnccPQEl0ey6VHn1DUWKHsmpBf9MkHXAOYs9bbUxJd0ij0I0947XzGi6Zh2Kfj7aC2gQ3oCodImnhos-UL8WCvnT7Y4c/s1300/qCWHkMFWaNjlE1QV3iy3iMaA1fD.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1300" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGsFHEzwPjDCxacyhodNhlQ4wytmVUi2M7H59ZCGKp1Aix_QflnccPQEl0ey6VHn1DUWKHsmpBf9MkHXAOYs9bbUxJd0ij0I0947XzGi6Zh2Kfj7aC2gQ3oCodImnhos-UL8WCvnT7Y4c/w640-h360/qCWHkMFWaNjlE1QV3iy3iMaA1fD.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Contrastingly, the characterization of the female protagonist in Bong Joon-ho’s <i>Mother</i> offers a stark variation in traits, attributes, and societal positioning; exhibiting the expansive variety and diverse representation women in film have to offer. Rather than the overdone sexual assault victim, girl-next-door, or damsel in distress character cage, <i>Mother </i>depicts the realities of living in poverty, of living with mental illness, and explores the nature of being a parent. Furthermore, this is done through the artistry of an unconventional actress, an old female, who captivates the audience and steals the stage with a ground-breaking performance. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">From the get-go, the protagonist referred to as solely ‘mother’ throughout the entire film is independent, self-reliant, and has clearly been in charge of the finances and parental care in the Yoon household. The lack of a male or father figure is never discussed, nor even hinted at, further emphasizing the capacity and capabilities of the mother. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mother is autonomous, making ends meet by selling herbal medication and practising acupuncture, whilst taking care of household chores and a mentally ill adult child, defying the norms of traditional households or an assumed family dynamic with the father as the breadwinner. It is also hinted at, in scenes, that mother herself deals with mental health issues as Yoon Do-Joon recalls her attempts to kill him and then herself, adding to the characteristic of mother as strong and resilient. Having survived what was a suicide attempt and having had continued from that point with a goal of taking care of her child, mother embodies the ultimate survivor as she is surviving for two (Ratner, 2010), emphasizing the true nature and virtue of motherhood, to not even acknowledge her own pain in order to be capable of helping her child. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Furthermore, setting the mother up in the contemporary society where hegemonies are built on the de-sexualisation of elderly women, as well as culturally in a Korean context which excludes the single mother, and possibly a widow from any societally acceptable sexual activity (Kim, 2016), allows for the plot to be directed by her actions and behaviours, using all meagre advantages; the perceived innocuousness and near-invisibility of an elderly woman (Ratner, 2010), for the audience to base their judgment of her personality, rather than her looks or ability to seduce someone. Mother is portrayed as a human rather than as an excuse to portray an unrealistic or idealized woman, as far too often to be a woman in cinema, is to be sexualized or made to use sexuality for personal gains.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Although unfortunate that contemporary society devalues elderly women, as they no longer meet the idealized beauty standards; this paradoxically rids them of the constraints, policing, and sexualisation that had been enforced upon them previously, allowing for their lives to be led and for relationships to be made, on a basis other than their gender. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In this manner, Bong Joon-ho’s, <i>Mother</i>, works to finally give centre stage to an age range barely depicted or spoken for in the media. Flipping the inevitable degradation within social hierarchies or the diminishing importance that often results as a woman ages, on its head, Bong Joon-ho uses this to accentuate the mother’s personality, psyche, and identity, allowing for a greater focus on her actions, representing a female life devoid of the male gaze or the incentive of assault and discrimination based on gender, thus better showcasing the effects of economic oppression, mental health issues, corruption and the extent of female power.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mother takes traits that younger women are often ridiculed for, such as being ‘overly emotional’, ‘dramatic’ or ‘caring too much’, and applies it to a situation, utilizing stylistic devices such as plot twists and flashbacks, to rephrase and review those emotions and build a barely-seen-before character type: “a mother [that] will go to any length to save or avenge her child” (Ji-yoon An, 2019), where “the underlying foundation of this hypothesis lies in the notion of excessive maternal love, a trait that is taken to be present in all Korean mothers” (Ji-yoon An, 2019), a sort of love that transcends laws and morals.</span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Acting almost as a cautionary tale for audiences, to never underestimate a woman, to never mock her emotions, and to never forget the power she holds and isn’t afraid to use when it comes to what she cares about; a tale where “the mother starts off as a victim but gradually transforms into a darker character with the potential to do harm” (Ji-yoon An, 2019).</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Such argument is also backed up by theorists who have studied the responses from audiences upon watching such films, and their interests for what Korean society has labelled ‘mother thriller’ films (Ji-yoon An, 2019) in which themes of oppressed women who are pushed to their limits in a patriarchal society, forgo their morals in order to save their child or to fight against an often fraudulent and unjust system, with violent and murderous measures. For example, Ji-Yoon An’s research explains how the male-dominated society has made women “quick, calculating and unethical”, in order to practice their “female agency” (2019). </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Congruent to this statement, <i>Mother</i> almost stands as a feminist text, where instead of portraying an elderly woman as frail or needing protection, it applies that very reasoning and makes <i>Mother</i> scary. No one is ever suspecting such a demographic of committing a horrendous murder, allowing mother to fly under the radar and never be suspected of the crime; highlighted in the final scene of the film where the mother’s “silhouette joins a crowd of other dancing women, [and] it becomes impossible to distinguish our protagonist, leaving viewers with the frightening speculation that a similarly dark story might exist behind all Korean mothers who dance to forget such memories” (Ji-yoon An, 2019), simultaneously deceiving everyone. It gives way to the psychotic nature that has emerged as a result of frustration, anger, and constant injustice, alerting audiences that women are to be feared and warning them of the effects of pushing women too far, endorsing fear into viewers and making them realize that the very importance they have stripped elderly women of, will be their downfall; a theory emphasized in “the final scene of <i>Mother</i> insinuating all Korean mothers to harbour not only an ability to transform into a subversive character but even a similarly harrowing and hidden past” (Ji-yoon An, 2019).</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Especially within the context, in which this film was made, the moral of the story is emphasized far more when reached to audiences it had targeted. The role and importance of family and motherhood in Korean culture are far more central and of significance, “the fact that the first female to be imaged on a Korean banknote was a woman known as ‘the great Korean mother’ speaks of the national pride embedded in the image of Korean motherhood.” (Ji-yoon An, 2019). Consequently, the “role of the mother is romanticized to exemplify the familiar image of the ‘wise mother good wife’ with narratives often focusing on a mother’s sacrifice” (Ji-yoon An, 2019) and the majority of Korean family films depicting the role of a mother through rose-coloured lenses with a focus on the purity of motherhood which is challenged tremendously with <i>Mother</i>, which instead explores “the continuing issue of ‘extreme motherhood’ in today’s society” (Ji-yoon An, 2019).</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Discussing the role and treatment of women in national cinema between Zhang Yimou’s, 2004, <i>House of Flying Daggers</i> and Bong Joon-ho’s, 2009, <i>Mother </i>and comparing depictions and positioning of protagonists within the two texts,<i> </i>the difference in agencies, scope, and ability is undeniably in the favour of mother, so much so that even film critics commented on the stark differences in the characterization of female characters as “thrillers of the past had worked to reinforce masculine solidarity, representatively between a male killer and a male chaser. Women, as the weaker sex, were usually collateral damage in the process of depicting masculine problems with governmental authority” (Ji-yoon An, 2019), and so this newly formed and popularised “image of strong female characters in mother thrillers can be argued as progress in the depiction of women in cinema, particularly within the genre of thrillers” (Ji-yoon An, 2019).</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Although the setting of both films is dominated by male presence, whether that might be in an authoritative manner or just by the sheer unequal ratio of men to women, the characteristics of Xiaomi even though the feminist reading of the femme fatale, discusses the stories of this period as cautionary tales, designed to warn male readers of female sexuality’s catastrophic effects on patriarchy (Kourelou, 2010), obviously positioning the male audience as its target and alerting them of the consequences of giving women too much freedom. Meanwhile, Bong, a Korean male director, saw <i>Mother</i> as a chance to push an agenda: to destroy the myth of maternal instinct, exhibiting and recognizing that despite the association with care and comfort, motherhood itself is rarely peaceful, setting up a situation that begs mother to break boundaries (Kim, 2016) and illustrates a truer deposition of female hardship and the difficulties of motherhood. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mother is simply a character treated with more respect and attention. Written with a real person in mind, a conclusion that will engage with audiences as well as start a wider conversation about, and inclusive of demographics that have previously been shoved under the rug, the film works to psychologically question our society, its treatment of elderly women, as well as disabilities in the national and cultural context of Korea as well as the overall patriarchy. However, Xiaomei on the other hand is made to play into all the traps laid out for her by male authorities, the patriarchy, and general discrimination against her gender. Her personality is underdeveloped, written only to the extent of serving the male gaze and offering audiences an attractively enveloped cautionary tale about women’s sexuality and independence, encouraging the shutting down or disapproval of female independence and autonomy.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Overall, to conclude, it can be finalised that films, namely Zhang Yimou’s, 2004, <i>House of Flying Daggers</i> and Bong Joon-ho’s, 2009, <i>Mother</i>, showcase the role and treatment of women upon the basis of traits, personality and attributes made available to the character. Additionally, the positioning within a certain context or amongst other characters can highly impact the role, depiction, and treatment of said character, as located in the focus films where although both settings are heavily male-oriented and male-led with overt patriarchal influences, the characteristics, features, and potentials admitted to the female lead directs the moral; as Xiaomei is left helpless and presents the possible liberation of women if they practice their independence or sexuality, sitting as a cautionary tale for men and patriarchy, and mother is allowed to explore the power of maternal instinct as well as dismantle ideologies about age, agency, and capabilities.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;">References</span></p><p></p><p class="p2" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;">Chen, Ya-Chen. (2005). There Is A Beauty in the Door(way) of Flying Daggers. Intellect. Asian Cinema, 15:2, pp 277-291. DOI: <a href="https://doi.org/10.1386/ac.16.2.277_1"><span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;">https://doi.org/10.1386/ac.16.2.277_1</span></a></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Ji-yoon An. (2019). The Korean mother in contemporary thriller films: a Monster or just modern?, Journal of Japanese and Korean Cinema, 11:2, pp154-169, DOI: 10.1080/17564905.2019.1661655 </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Kim, Ann Meejung. (2016). Alienating the Maternal Instinct in Bong Joon-ho’s Mother, International Journal of Literature and Arts. 4:5, pp 61-67. DOI: 10.11648/j.ijla.2016040</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Kourelou O. (2010) ‘Put the Blame on…Mei’: Zhang Ziyi and the Politics of Global Stardom. In: Hanson H., O’Rawe C. (eds) The Femme Fatale: Images, Histories, Contexts. Palgrave Macmillan, London. https://doi.org/10.1057/9780230282018_9</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">McGuire, P. (2019). Unveiling Identities: A Cultural Study of the Portrayal of Leading Women in Zhang Yimou Films. The University of Southern Mississippi, Graduate School, pp. 1-9, pp. 48-57. </span><a href="https://aquila.usm.edu/dissertations/1736/" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;">https://aquila.usm.edu/dissertations/1736/</span></a></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Ratner, Megan. (2010). Film Comment ‘Mother’. Film Society of Lincoln Center, 46:2, pp 71.</span></p><p class="p3" style="color: #e4af0a; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://search.proquest.com/openview/773fd778da41aa2da0aba9d4bcd681b1/1?pq-origsite=gscholar&cbl=24820"><span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;">https://search.proquest.com/openview/773fd778da41aa2da0aba9d4bcd681b1/1?pq-origsite=gscholar&cbl=24820</span></a><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;">Filmography<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><i>House of Flying Daggers </i>(film). Directed by Zhang Yimou. Edko Films. 2004.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Mother </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">(film). Directed by Bong Joon-ho. CJ Entertainment. 2009.</span></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-77524260446471156622021-07-27T14:41:00.002+10:002023-05-30T14:33:45.371+10:00I'll want to read back on this<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5cT9K-F8oOzROK6nlnh8pQOXNKQ6U5DTiMZ8OIpJZxze1AHaeO6su0wTY767bRTbpcjiTSmdjQkjrdNlR1vDYMntubQdI_g0d4uXA48mn9E3zCKq4Obk425xso3KHwwXIMRYbjYNi0Q/s2048/Untitled_Artwork+6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5cT9K-F8oOzROK6nlnh8pQOXNKQ6U5DTiMZ8OIpJZxze1AHaeO6su0wTY767bRTbpcjiTSmdjQkjrdNlR1vDYMntubQdI_g0d4uXA48mn9E3zCKq4Obk425xso3KHwwXIMRYbjYNi0Q/w480-h640/Untitled_Artwork+6.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><p>I've been feeling powerful this week, my energy has been calm and I've been soaking in rays of stability and now-ness. </p><p>I was asked by a friend the other day, what 21 has been like for me and my mind directly went to explaining it in comparison to being 17. Maybe <i>comparison</i> isn't the correct word as the two are revealing themselves to be so similar to each other, instead, I think I use the term to emphasize the difference in <i>my</i> understanding of the situations, but within different mindsets, as <i>I</i> am the one who has changed, not necessarily the events. </p><p>17 was full of change, of hardships and it was a transitionary period. It was difficult to navigate and it was challenging to say the least, and although 21 seems quite the same in that aspect, my consciousness is far more present in getting me through every day. I am aware of how the two ages have brought me similar situations but as I am different and have a clearer idea of who I am or what I want; and, I can find peace and pride myself on that growth. </p><p>When I comprehend this thought though, it just seems to me as if we're all a part of some strange joke. A prank maybe, that we're playing on ourselves. I feel as though we are so far into a delusion that even recognizing it feels wrong, yet we all do recognize it, but choose to bury it deep and not think about it because well, what else are we meant to do? </p><p>(I hesitate to expand on that further because I believe I am more convincing when I speak about it, rather than when typing, but then again it differs depending on who I speak to as even a hint of self-doubt ruptures my train of thought and therefore my eloquence. Now I'm questioning whether I'm even good at either? I think I am but if my abilities are lost so easily by the presence of another's intellect, then am I truly good at it? Perhaps it's all insignificant (how ironic) and I'm an overly anxious person as a result of comparing myself to others but always reaching the same conclusion.)</p><p>But anyhow, I will attempt to <strike>speak</strike> type my mind more for myself than anyone else who stumbles across this post; as even if one does, in the end, they will realize that all judgment is so insignificant anyways. </p><p>What seems like a massive joke we have all deluded ourselves of, calling our <i>reality</i>, is the fact that we keep on living each and every moment with some sense of disease, discomfort, dissatisfaction, stress, or fear within us. </p><p>Not to say, I don't live this way, but I feel as though I keep encountering sudden realizations here and there where I truly think to myself- what is the point? and not in a depressing, "I want to die, everything is meaningless" sort of way- no, it's quite the opposite actually. </p><p>It feels like a joke that we all know that we only have about 85 years here (and even that's pushing it). We know that in the end, the only thing that will matter is the feeling of the present moment in which you are passing away (yes you will reflect on your life and all the memories, etc, but there is a moment of sudden self-presence) yet we live in this cycle day after day of anxiety, stress, and helplessness for the imagined future.</p><p>We're all aware of our time here, right? And, we are all aware of the fact that this will end, that everything is temporary, and that in the greater scheme of things- we are so insignificant. </p><p>I've been visualizing people I see, even myself, as little energy illuminations rather than seeing people in their human form. It's as if we are simply just clusters of energy, of consciousness that inhibits the outer human shell. Perhaps that illumination changes in color or vibrancy and strength according to how you react or present your thoughts and emotions to the world and to other energies, or what you hold close to your heart and let determine your life. </p><p>I think to myself then, shouldn't this make us recognize how powerful we are? How much we have to explore and experience? How significant we can make our lives because we are so insignificant? </p><p>If you truly think about it, are you making the most of the time you have here? Is our only purpose to get good grades, get a job, make money, be able to afford stuff, etc.? </p><p>I can't help but keep thinking about the fact that we've made these rules for ourselves- we've created our own pain. This society, the way it is constructed, to prioritize some, to give others none, to keep you unsatisfied, to keep fueling sadness. This system that keeps fueling our pain - haven't we created it all? How can we, and are we just letting this happen to us? </p><p>As harboring this human body, the outer shell, being this conscious energy form that deciphers and understands its own emotions, comprehends feelings - are we doing the most with what it has to offer? </p><p>Every time I feel something, respond or react to a situation or emotion that I hadn't predicted, regardless of overthinking and over-protecting myself by making sure I was ready to take on anything possible... When I feel something beyond the possibility of what I thought I could feel or would encounter I am truly taken aback as to how obscure, how unique, and how intense these emotions can be. </p><p>How someone else will never feel something that you do - they can share it with you, but your emotions will always be yours only, and you or no one else can even know for 100% that how or what you feel is the exact same. Empathy or sympathy is the closest we come to it, but it's absolutely baffling and disarming for me when a certain situation results in emotion I didn't <i>think</i> I could feel.</p><p>It seems as though the answer to one of the biggest questions - w<i>hat is our purpose here?</i> can be found through this thinking.</p><p>Isn't it just to relish in the fact that we can truly just <i>be</i>? </p><p>Even the shittiest of emotions- grief, sadness, loneliness, depression- are all a part of the human experience are they not? Whether you believe in reincarnation or not is a different topic, but regardless of it, you can't dismiss the truth- that you will never experience things the same way ever, ever again. Like emotion and the ability to comprehend it, express it, feel it and control it is such a minuscule difference between human beings and any other being or form, but it makes us so much more powerful. It gives us <i>consciousness</i>. <br /></p><p>You have these 85 approx years to keep feeling and exploring what it is to be human- how this ability to be conscious is a gift, a very unique chance to live a life with such depth to it, one which can hold so much meaning and one that has so much to offer. Yet, we allow the fear- of failure, of disappointing or of being in debt or expressing yourself in ways that divert from the 'norm'- all obstacles we have created for ourselves and within ourselves that hinder us from recognizing the simplest truth of life. </p><p>I do know that when I think this way, it comes from a place of privilege. Of course, and hopefully, you as a reader would understand that <i>this</i> way of thinking I am able to exercise or am encouraging people to adopt, cannot be seen as an applicable or appropriate commentary towards the emotions, lives, and experiences of those in the contexts of war, famine, poverty, intellectual disability and such. But, I do believe that even a second of accepting the present moment and realizing the limited time you have here and how you make use of that time, as a grounding technique, can bring some sort of ease to anyone. </p><p>I know this may still not be applicable to many circumstances that I am oblivious to or ignorant of, but one where I can apply it or it has helped me, is one that I feel many can relate to as the context within which I am, and from which my anxieties emerge, is a context shared by many. </p><p>I was asked about a certain relationship in my life, and how I was dealing with it. I responded by saying that as long as that relationship adds to my life, not hinders my peace or happiness, I will allow it to be a part of my life, as, without it, I was satisfied and happy and don't <i>need</i> this relationship. That, if I feel like it is causing me more pain than pleasure then I will cut it out of my life because I am responsible for my own happiness and have the right to remove anything that disrupts that. </p><p>For a while that seemed like such a mature way of thinking- a way to live that will ensure my emotional stability and remove the most possibility of <i>hurt</i>, and I thought I was doing a great job with this mindset because especially for me- someone who is affected quite easily and on a very hard-hitting level when something goes wrong- because I was putting up my boundaries and choosing the life I wanted to live, through what I thought was 'protecting myself'. </p><span></span><p style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________________________________________________</p><p>"Shouldn't you want to experience it, I mean, as a writer?"...</p><p>...The way you experience things, the way you use the time you have to feel (or not feel) certain things, are all in your control. So, shouldn't I use exactly that to my advantage, and yes, especially as a writer? </p><p><strike>I should</strike> I want to do the most I can with my time here, I want to experience it all, I want to live through it and fight it and love it and be engulfed in the endless possibilities because I <i>can</i>. Because I truly have control over one thing and that is the state of my mind, how I react to things, how I let them affect me, and how I give them the power to make or break the rest of the experiences and emotions left to feel and explore. </p><p>Being in a shitty situation is only shitty because you get fixated on it and let it determine how you will act or how it will reflect on your future. A shitty situation can be great, and necessary for direction, but most make it into a negative, painful experience for themselves. </p><p>It sounds simple- to be in a situation and to learn from it, but it's just as easy to let it ruin you. I think it happens often, especially when depression and anxiety are in the mix, it makes it easier to trip into a downward spiral of self-loathing, hatred for others, discomfort with certain situations, or barricading certain events to happen in your life or from feeling certain things. </p><p>However, I think what I'm trying to do instead, now that I've thought it out differently, is realize that the power I hold over myself is far greater than anything that happens externally. </p><p>You have endless emotions to uncover and experiences to encounter within the given years of your life and I think being stubborn and sticking to certain ways or being rigid about change or how you perceive things seems like such a waste of potential. </p><p>I've found one thing that helps me with this, is utilizing what some may see as a limitation.<br />As we all thrive on communication, on understanding others' words and actions, which in turn leads us to react in a certain way or say certain things. But that in itself is so powerful. If you simply take a step back before you react or say something, recognize the power of silence. Recognize the power of being in control; of how you perceive things. Acknowledge that you may be wrong or that there may be another way to think about certain things. Or simply understanding that you don't always have to exhibit your thoughts or feelings immediately- gives you so much control over your life and how you live it. </p><p>A big thing I need to remind myself of often is the fact that I box myself up and label it. Or, I box up a certain way I feel, react or respond, and trap it, allowing for it to take over me, guide me and determine my future. Now, although it's something I'm still working on actively; not encasing heavy, negative, or destructive emotions/ reactions and giving other possibilities and assumptions the benefit of the doubt, what has been the most helpful is being kind to myself and my thoughts. </p><p>If a negative through, assumption, or conclusion arises within me, I've been trying to stabilize it and explore what other ways the situation that arose that initial negativity, actually has to offer, logically. </p><p>If my brain can conclude a very bad thing to result from what I've experienced, for example, then surely there are good or slightly less bad things that could also result from a situation?<br /><br />The quote "It's never as good as you'd want, but it's never as bad as you'd dread", sums up the approach, I reckon. </p><p>I think I've realized that the one way to truly be in control and overall more perceptive about what or how you do things, is by realizing that your actions and words are the only way to really communicate something or to let something have power over you- example, if something makes you angry and you act out on that angry aggressively, then you've let that emotion overpower you and you've become a slave to it almost. </p><p>However, if you approach it differently, allowing yourself to feel the anger, but also taking a step back to recognize what triggered that emotion and realizing that you have the power to no let it bother you- that there may be other ways to look at the situation or act on it- being able to take a break, reflect on how you feel and then being consciously in-charge and in control of your following actions and words, makes life so much easier. </p><p style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________________________________________________</p><p>Originally this post was going to be just phrases such as the ones below that I would write out to myself throughout the week that help me stay grounded and help clear the fog of anxious and depressive thinking I often find myself in. </p><p>I've still kept them in because they're much more accessible and simpler than reading all the above tangents, and in addition to the phrases, I've added in some scanned pages from my beloved writing book that has truly been on a magical ride with me the past few days. Not much is comprehensible from the pages, but it pleases me to add in the photos as a reflection of my cluttered thinking transforming into words, sentences, and paragraphs. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPp5X64kyGp2Gfu_8ec-IQA3ePnNujDWqoa6o_Z1wEiC5Kz56imOaN8K-Ei0xNfnEN2yGLCeNbGBIaeCsZa1oPDBMgPaVk-gGar-BVmRBcXa4fE-0P0pELpamz-8oZXjHq0uxnpIYaFs/s1695/FullSizeRender+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1695" data-original-width="1280" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPp5X64kyGp2Gfu_8ec-IQA3ePnNujDWqoa6o_Z1wEiC5Kz56imOaN8K-Ei0xNfnEN2yGLCeNbGBIaeCsZa1oPDBMgPaVk-gGar-BVmRBcXa4fE-0P0pELpamz-8oZXjHq0uxnpIYaFs/w483-h640/FullSizeRender+2.jpg" width="483" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixk11XXLHzHmcnnAH6H8A6GkL0ciwEazoQV8pMj40z-XGccsQOoFCGvb403kJ930SUr3d420tmxo6oMj59eFwhw29Fc6qMAVKhsHcsHFofb5ex2zn-RspR_PYJd0yInRZrDI2YTRojcLY/s1218/FullSizeRender.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1218" data-original-width="1195" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixk11XXLHzHmcnnAH6H8A6GkL0ciwEazoQV8pMj40z-XGccsQOoFCGvb403kJ930SUr3d420tmxo6oMj59eFwhw29Fc6qMAVKhsHcsHFofb5ex2zn-RspR_PYJd0yInRZrDI2YTRojcLY/w393-h400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="393" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">Also, it would be criminal not to mention <i>The Power of Now</i> by Eckhart Tolle, a book that has had a huge impact on me and helped me get out of my depressive state several times. Would recommend it to any and everyone. </p><p style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________________________________________________</p><p style="text-align: left;">It will be okay. What you feel right now, won't last forever. </p><p>You get to experience this. It's all something you will look back at - maybe in a few weeks, months, or years. It feels like a lot right now, but one day it won't, and those emotions will transform into another. </p><p>The things that aren't working out now, that are stressing you out and overwhelming you, are so small. So tiny. In the current moment, it seems massive, but time heals and time passes and so does the intensity of these emotions.</p><p>Look at yourself- your body- the shell in which you exist and will for the rest of this experience- you are so small, things are so insignificant.</p><p>Lockdown gives me the ability to rest, to take things slow, to create, and to enjoy a quiet life. </p><p>What's happening right now <i>is it</i>. You just have to accept things for what they are rather than being stressed over it or wishing it wasn't this way because that won't <i>change</i> things. If you want things to be different, you have to change them.</p><p>Whatever ends up happening, you can make it through- rely on your instincts to handle situations rather than overanalyzing them from the beginning- thinking about all the possible situations doesn't solve anything- it creates stress.</p><p>You were happy and have the ability to be again. All feelings are temporary. </p><p>Things change so quickly, you don't even know.</p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-51597641624670919142021-05-06T15:20:00.003+10:002021-05-06T16:28:09.658+10:0020<div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;">21st year of my life has begun and it's time to reflect back on how 20 went. <br /> An entire year's worth of memories, growth, and disasters to summarise. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUnfjqYLwVURlgd1cs0jURGKh0mHVFuXpn97UwyamLlKLkwNvR5XRBJoODlhXBywn8XSe6cVPBgD2YjRa_J7EmZEQoddc7iEt4VP6coqmKzBNyQTx1KcjVOUeYtoXIW-8461i3KJOQgg/s1648/FullSizeRender+10.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1648" data-original-width="1124" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUnfjqYLwVURlgd1cs0jURGKh0mHVFuXpn97UwyamLlKLkwNvR5XRBJoODlhXBywn8XSe6cVPBgD2YjRa_J7EmZEQoddc7iEt4VP6coqmKzBNyQTx1KcjVOUeYtoXIW-8461i3KJOQgg/w273-h400/FullSizeRender+10.jpg" width="273" /></a></div><p>PS. Not going to lie, writing for other people (interning/ working as a freelancer) has made me so cautious about what I write and how I write it. When you're doing work for someone else, you have a style guide to follow, certain rules to adhere to and, you start doubting your abilities as a writer. So, being back on this platform, a space where I truly have all control and rein over what I say and how I say it, feels almost surreal. I can make mistakes, I can choose the topics, I can do whatever I want, I'm elated. </p><p>Anyways, 21. It's been just over a week since my birthday, and it was a nice, pleasant day. Usually, I despise the 27th of April, just because there are so many expectations and assumptions attached to that day and often the attention you get on your birthday doesn't seem genuine and it makes me uncomfortable. This time around though, I barely had the time to think about any of that. I went to class, then work and then had dinner with. friend (which was the sweetest way to end the day). Also, I didn't have post-birthday depression, which for me, has been a very real thing for the past couple of years, but perhaps this is all to credit to my age lol. </p><p>On that note, I wanted to originally write this post to recap and talk about what I've learned and how I evolved in my 20s, and now that my off-topicy rant is out of the way, I'll attempt to remember all the changes I've seen in myself the past year, what I've learned and what I'll take with me for years to come. </p><p>Starting off, I have to just say that I have the worst memory ever. I mean I think it's always been bad, but as time goes on, it's definitely getting worse, so this post will be interesting. I'm going to try going through my camera roll to remind me of what I actually did. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIf1g8bBnIcNeLwecC4yz6c8AYuk5M8HR6PwWWaTAaognK3HPyiyQGKvd2sHzeG4sDr7m7N42wyRb-qy96Kbk14G992b_9rmuMJ5hbEvaAVFTGWxXp4rU17oxsB6rHG3HBfLaXA5WAeGE/s2000/53574EBC-3F0C-4D52-ABC5-24075A0D72CA.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIf1g8bBnIcNeLwecC4yz6c8AYuk5M8HR6PwWWaTAaognK3HPyiyQGKvd2sHzeG4sDr7m7N42wyRb-qy96Kbk14G992b_9rmuMJ5hbEvaAVFTGWxXp4rU17oxsB6rHG3HBfLaXA5WAeGE/s320/53574EBC-3F0C-4D52-ABC5-24075A0D72CA.JPG" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>Ok so I want to start off with the fact that the majority of my 2020 was spent indoors, in lockdown, and so this image seems like a good start. </p><p>I went to the BLM parade, which was right before the lockdown really settled. </p><p>Personally, and I a aware of the privilege I hold in saying this, the lockdown, being isolated, and having to spend time with myself was really good for me. I leaned that I can be alone. It also allowed me to be so much more productive. It was probably my most successful year in terms of my <a href="https://enchantedclub.blogspot.com/p/contact.html">career</a> and finances. I kept myself busy, did some freelance work, started my <a href="https://enchantedclub.bigcartel.com/">art shop</a> and <a href="https://www.buymeacoffee.com/enchanted">Buy Me a Coffee</a> page and overall just had more time to put energy into these creative outlets. </p><p>Yes, the pandemic was difficult, it of course impacted my mental illness but along with that came resilience. I became stronger, I became more connected to myself. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxYW-kWNAve8VmE5IuEZLAR5qqqYS1IlUqlB9Di10bKtRbJ6POf55-Mx4-38TpVGsC96Bko2T7WokN4wNXUeRxdr1d2X3DvtRpGO-s_Pow5EZY0gmUn6ACOJ5Qf56K29CnBzG9Zqc_P4/s2048/IMG_9163.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxYW-kWNAve8VmE5IuEZLAR5qqqYS1IlUqlB9Di10bKtRbJ6POf55-Mx4-38TpVGsC96Bko2T7WokN4wNXUeRxdr1d2X3DvtRpGO-s_Pow5EZY0gmUn6ACOJ5Qf56K29CnBzG9Zqc_P4/s320/IMG_9163.jpg" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgifDHJ9rnHL2a9NEjph-ylywP7cIyYX-qw25VbFlnDomclA3A0TTkMxmgUAuCmX4Fq23KCDoWTa6Hot3LNmUdGxo0wE8npBQmya_0MDtPmLDQtPobYGybznRV2sGD3uGxFMypw_uSlM/s2048/IMG_8401.jpg" style="display: inline; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgifDHJ9rnHL2a9NEjph-ylywP7cIyYX-qw25VbFlnDomclA3A0TTkMxmgUAuCmX4Fq23KCDoWTa6Hot3LNmUdGxo0wE8npBQmya_0MDtPmLDQtPobYGybznRV2sGD3uGxFMypw_uSlM/s320/IMG_8401.jpg" /></a><br />Got my first tattoo (around June I think), and a photo from BLM <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyJqGZ-ZSD-gyWxno2ZDsu2HsasG4-AKzGzPd4qBnTy2bu0J14H__cJZ_s1Ia0nNZ7nig8tx-yZmnMdp2nnMLzW1RG6CAcKJXGNiRLSDVtJe3q1eLWdUeaBz9zx4Fq9bXB97EqgYZYN4/s1600/668da30d-935b-490f-a636-43992bf6663a.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyJqGZ-ZSD-gyWxno2ZDsu2HsasG4-AKzGzPd4qBnTy2bu0J14H__cJZ_s1Ia0nNZ7nig8tx-yZmnMdp2nnMLzW1RG6CAcKJXGNiRLSDVtJe3q1eLWdUeaBz9zx4Fq9bXB97EqgYZYN4/w400-h300/668da30d-935b-490f-a636-43992bf6663a.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />Photo taken by a lesson lmao</div><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Also, despite the lockdown, I met a lot of people in 2020. I made some really close friends, but I also figured out how to put myself first and not be such a people pleaser. For so long it was almost impossible for me to accept that someone didn't like me. I used to stay in toxic friendships, not speak up someone said something I didn't agree with, and put up with those who made me feel like shit. But over the last year, honestly, love and respect for myself have overtaken my need to be liked by everyone. I'm grateful for the people I met and the lessons I learned, but I think I'm happier about the fact that I've cut out certain people or that things played out in such a way that certain people aren't in my life. <br /><br />There were some pretty crazy things that happened last year and although at the time I was a bit taken aback, it didn't even take e too long to overcome those things. And now, I have really weird but interesting stories to tell lol. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mJDurGRf0CWLg_rLK29Hlym2WA68JkezQXYWOnCQpQbnzxwfN_pVy1d-DUh66V9ud4Lnc4S1PU5r8hydVQ6E68lrK4EzRXiUiYX75v0sVCOGzvjNu12ABc0UKhIOeqEhtiSWTYiAjT0/s2000/CC9E10A9-D9AF-4852-BDCB-56CCB0A6A3F9.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mJDurGRf0CWLg_rLK29Hlym2WA68JkezQXYWOnCQpQbnzxwfN_pVy1d-DUh66V9ud4Lnc4S1PU5r8hydVQ6E68lrK4EzRXiUiYX75v0sVCOGzvjNu12ABc0UKhIOeqEhtiSWTYiAjT0/s320/CC9E10A9-D9AF-4852-BDCB-56CCB0A6A3F9.JPG" /></a></div><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br />Spending a lot of time alone meant a lot of Friday nights and weekends alone with little to no chance of even stepping out of my tiny ass room. Thankfully, I started talking to and got closer to some of the people I lived with. It made me realize how thankful I was that I was at least living with other people around me, not like I did in 2018, completely alone because I would've actually gone insane. </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Loud phone calls my floormate made, that used to annoy me so goddamn much, now made me smile because it was some sort of solace that another human existed. </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">I think that change- how I started looking at things differently and how I could identify my capacity to change and grow, is something that I really cherish, and I'll hold on to that for a very long time. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCh0Ej2CTc93QVilvRaDxJUnBgmeVdjifunWQQBvw4EHVab5NMsSbBTt5iYvoH5e5JMSL-4mFGCd4R2TkznnEBYxpOPzecaFM6Ows7DlMoaNnjk8RMp6jUD0Ysi31tZRGHMFe1_BMeUug/s1999/IMG_5345.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1999" data-original-width="1468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCh0Ej2CTc93QVilvRaDxJUnBgmeVdjifunWQQBvw4EHVab5NMsSbBTt5iYvoH5e5JMSL-4mFGCd4R2TkznnEBYxpOPzecaFM6Ows7DlMoaNnjk8RMp6jUD0Ysi31tZRGHMFe1_BMeUug/s320/IMG_5345.JPG" /></a></div><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Enchanted Club has <a href="https://enchantedclub.blogspot.com/2021/01/spiritual-awakening-notes.html">seen this image before</a>, but I couldn't talk about the things I learned at 20 and how I grew, without talking about my spirituality and my growing interest in things like energies, manifestation, and looking at the world from a different perspective. </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Sounds a bit demeaning when I say that all of this was triggered upon my viewing of 'Surviving Death' on Netflix, but that show sort of launched me into this. I had known about manifesting and karma before this and had loved my crystals but from that point onwards, I really started taking things seriously. There was a shift in the way I lived my life and how I dealt with situations. I realized that we truly are just a shell, with a soul, a consciousness, and once our time to experience this human form has ended (typically 80 years approx.) we simply return back to the elements, ready for our energy to transfer into some other being. Getting this through my head, helped me be more realistic about situations, take more risks, and move on from things quicker. I started looking at any situation (good or bad) as an experience I get to have or an emotion I get to experience, rather than complaining about it or feeling like it's ruining my life.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WIUL17It4h9l67MePMBEKvu_wedaKGhCYR0f_HtdF_Z_GiYs6u9jkmVrNXQDaPof4qxhXFEacHyunTRUPDUF5FB9kGz9q4rvzuqx3ICoRt8kqt9VmNqqUa9hAOTewv_xaK_IIYZKjYA/s2048/IMG_2501.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WIUL17It4h9l67MePMBEKvu_wedaKGhCYR0f_HtdF_Z_GiYs6u9jkmVrNXQDaPof4qxhXFEacHyunTRUPDUF5FB9kGz9q4rvzuqx3ICoRt8kqt9VmNqqUa9hAOTewv_xaK_IIYZKjYA/s320/IMG_2501.jpg" /></a></div><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="text-align: center;">I also went through what was probably the most frustrating physical (?) problem I'd ever have to go through- getting a fucking stye on my literal eyelid. This literally grew to such a huge size and was right on my face. It made me so so insecure and made me reevaluate how much I care about my appearance. It made me cry, it made me want to not look in the mirror, it made me so depressed. Eventually, I had to get a mini surgery to get it removed and it was a pain in the ass but I think it made me realize that I should be grateful for what I have. When I was looking back at photos from before I had the stye, I was mad at myself for never appreciating the fact that I had all my features, that I was healthy. Looking at past photos of me made me realize that I need to stop putting myself down based on my looks all the goddamn time, that I need to stop comparing myself to others. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="text-align: center;">This picture doesn't truly capture the extent to which that stye grew lol, I don't think any of you'd want to see that, but it was there for such a long time and it was painful and annoying. It's a lot better now as it had a few months post-surgery to heal, but what an adventure. I swear shit like this only happens to me. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5QkDZoFIVHSkYet_hnDE9dl01m_Y9q-o3zxefLmNUz_9HcSxonyaUNU1YvGODsoDqr6Qe6a8Sm4vcE6gCSi1t4YZcaPz8jrAF0Dfp0R14Cx7DycylataV9zNnU9ApsCYKzUwCiLiGmi8/s2048/IMG_2460.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5QkDZoFIVHSkYet_hnDE9dl01m_Y9q-o3zxefLmNUz_9HcSxonyaUNU1YvGODsoDqr6Qe6a8Sm4vcE6gCSi1t4YZcaPz8jrAF0Dfp0R14Cx7DycylataV9zNnU9ApsCYKzUwCiLiGmi8/s320/IMG_2460.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Another photo taken by another lesson</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Again, the number of new people I met last year was insane. I was a lot more adventurous and a lot less fearful and it allowed me to engage with new situations and converse with new people. I met some of the nicest people through mutual friends and although I only talked to them once, on that day, it restored my faith in humanity and gave peace to the part of me that always believes everyone hates me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4YTFZ_k8ImnQ19xNBFAZo3DpnNw8VhpfEd4VzEEOFpDDi91kUK0-khkFm7ZPt5mF27YEjVmqYzE2zWmJ8djf03X-4ZP3GKXZcG8mYcWqmTnleKiVcTVHyw8Mp_y6U-2e_a2L1TgKbDjQ/s2048/IMG_3520.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4YTFZ_k8ImnQ19xNBFAZo3DpnNw8VhpfEd4VzEEOFpDDi91kUK0-khkFm7ZPt5mF27YEjVmqYzE2zWmJ8djf03X-4ZP3GKXZcG8mYcWqmTnleKiVcTVHyw8Mp_y6U-2e_a2L1TgKbDjQ/s320/IMG_3520.jpg" /></a></div><span style="text-align: center;">Another notable difference has been in the way I look at Perth. I think it's fair to say that I haven't had the best relationship with Perth. I just relate it to high school and when I'm back there, my mental health often deteriorates. However, this time around and as a result of the previous growth and character development I had endured, I saw Perth and all it had to offer, in a different light too. </span><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;">I realized the copious amount of love that was there for me. How much easier things were when my parents were around to help me with it, how less lonely I left, and how much I love my dog lol (this I was already aware of). </span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;">I think the biggest surprise was when I realized that actually, I wouldn't mind living in Perth in the future. I used to be unable to even fathom the idea of living in Perth, but being back this time around, I think I felt secure. I felt like maybe it wouldn't be the end of the world if I lived in Perth again. It diminished so much of my anxiety and stress about graduating from uni because I didn't have this hypothetical dread over me anymore about what if I wasn't able to secure a job in Melbourne because now the idea of Perth doesn't hold such a negative place in my heart. </span></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OWGvzCQtCGyHz3flvuQU9XBwkox2lFkQjwBqXILaDwQPZ2PhTc4uflWcwBnNW16mGxBy7kJDYSvrzffchrGNSl03xo-jqBGqZBBvFmcC80W-MEdboCVcTmeq-zcTmdHVEqH05mFVIJg/s1477/b0726b59-e9ae-4af5-bc1e-ee01ad93c3e0.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1477" data-original-width="1108" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OWGvzCQtCGyHz3flvuQU9XBwkox2lFkQjwBqXILaDwQPZ2PhTc4uflWcwBnNW16mGxBy7kJDYSvrzffchrGNSl03xo-jqBGqZBBvFmcC80W-MEdboCVcTmeq-zcTmdHVEqH05mFVIJg/s320/b0726b59-e9ae-4af5-bc1e-ee01ad93c3e0.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;">20 also brought with it the most body confidence I've ever had. I think I was my heaviest and my lightest weight that year and although yes there were definitely times where I criticized my body and compared it to others, there was a lot more self-love. Even at my heaviest, I accepted myself. At my lightest, I felt so good. </span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;">My self-confidence and my relationship with my body are still a work in progress, but how far I have come, is something I'm very proud of. </span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi1olouJZgaNnAX8-kqUoO1CrEeyfCwwYlsoy5iwmG3eZ1xasd1wrt1q-uUacv4vMxJGFnVyLCCI8cZ-gEWL2x2TyBzUTmnypSbN1LQqBCcxGznH-RcCEQ2sgue-c25Ir_HMG5O09tzcw/s2048/IMG_5119.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi1olouJZgaNnAX8-kqUoO1CrEeyfCwwYlsoy5iwmG3eZ1xasd1wrt1q-uUacv4vMxJGFnVyLCCI8cZ-gEWL2x2TyBzUTmnypSbN1LQqBCcxGznH-RcCEQ2sgue-c25Ir_HMG5O09tzcw/s320/IMG_5119.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div>On a lighter note (?), I also made the worst hair decision ever lol. I've had blue and pink and blonde hair but those were all better decisions than getting a bloody perm and having my hair cut to look like... that. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I style it, I guess it looks fine but god do I hate it so much. I never realized how lucky I was to have straight, healthy hair. It literally had so much potential and it was so low maintenance. </div><div><br /></div><div>Its grow a bit since I committed that crime, but it's still a long way to go before I feel like myself again with my pretty straight hair :( </div><div><br /></div><div>Also, ps. straight hair people definitely have the privilege. Now that I've been on both sides of the spectrum, I can conclude this. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMyIO0zgEOxHDPwktOJl_GAaCH77dFma-oLp2B5UXxet-a3UOOrgJ6zFA6ndLF0QGNfNAJvPCr7Uj7wXrmk_3E92XTaLbBfHIutCar79FA52u-wLjMQAaSvhyphenhyphenDGdVHNOK8J92iWAc2Gtw/s1367/FullSizeRender+6.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="993" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMyIO0zgEOxHDPwktOJl_GAaCH77dFma-oLp2B5UXxet-a3UOOrgJ6zFA6ndLF0QGNfNAJvPCr7Uj7wXrmk_3E92XTaLbBfHIutCar79FA52u-wLjMQAaSvhyphenhyphenDGdVHNOK8J92iWAc2Gtw/s320/FullSizeRender+6.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><div>Lastly, I NEED to talk about my writing progress!!! </div><div>In the last year, I've worked as a proper freelance writer, I've had an amazing marketing job, I've started my own <a href="https://enchantedclub.bigcartel.com/">shop</a> and I've been published with FJ (and now I'm an intern there... crying). I'm actually making MOVES and I am so thrilled.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's let me become so much more comfortable with the fact that I'm graduating in about 2 months. I just have so much more confidence and I feel like I have greater agency over my own life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Plus I have to mention my increasing education and knowledge about feminism and its importance. I have become so involved with and so much more educated about the injustice in my daily life that stems from being a woman and learning about those things, being able to spot them out, and speaking up about them has made me feel powerful. You can check out my piece on this topic <a href="https://fashionjournal.com.au/life/women-sexist-expectations/">here</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>(Adding this in later cause I completely forgot this segment of my life lol but I've also gotten better at setting boundaries!!!) </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyways, I think I've rambled on long enough. Pretty sure I've left out important and noteworthy chunks of what happened, but this is as far as my memory (and my photos) will take me. Also, if there were grammatical errors or spelling mistakes in this, I'm glad lol, I'm not going to proofread this, I need to practice my autonomy hereby being my own boss and making my own decisions (cause I get to do that here) and so the decision is that simply do not care if this post has any mistakes :)</div><div><br /></div><div>Not even sure how many people will read this entire thing but if you did, thank you for recapping my 20th year with me. So many exciting things to come, so much growth to happen, so many people to meet and so many lessons to learn. Can't wait to grow into and become a powerful, independent woman. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwTSnYG9jAXSk-p8gO3gIjtRCrs2wkghIsySKHBwFL7x0LQHKMDsgQJhJgBvSb9pd82mdkV3L89RgX0F5924R3h7BoJhrM7ILqNWD7vkOumcyGfgmp0XMrifcDvfGkVELbK5PTiu2vQA/s1178/IMG_1473.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1178" data-original-width="1093" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwTSnYG9jAXSk-p8gO3gIjtRCrs2wkghIsySKHBwFL7x0LQHKMDsgQJhJgBvSb9pd82mdkV3L89RgX0F5924R3h7BoJhrM7ILqNWD7vkOumcyGfgmp0XMrifcDvfGkVELbK5PTiu2vQA/w371-h400/IMG_1473.jpg" width="371" /></a><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: right;">With love, <br /></span><span style="text-align: right;">Aastha// A2</span></div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-91880892159431094312021-04-05T16:36:00.002+10:002023-05-30T14:36:40.729+10:00Made Us<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #454545;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMu6L0DdSDrZAqVghrYcLJ3yARLGqLgfZT2nHbEyhGuUmfqqgimQunnqfSqccLQvLNJ2Wi2gsGEsn32rzsJjNC5zCc0a1IDWh0xHxmpMIYF8vtQEmqeTlhiV4k5PzTTijNpRxeMXQ_29E/s860/68-686646_vector-flowers-aesthetic-watercolor-orange-flowers-png-transparent.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="860" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMu6L0DdSDrZAqVghrYcLJ3yARLGqLgfZT2nHbEyhGuUmfqqgimQunnqfSqccLQvLNJ2Wi2gsGEsn32rzsJjNC5zCc0a1IDWh0xHxmpMIYF8vtQEmqeTlhiV4k5PzTTijNpRxeMXQ_29E/w400-h220/68-686646_vector-flowers-aesthetic-watercolor-orange-flowers-png-transparent.png" width="400" /></a></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">histories that shape me,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">emotions that make me,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">aren’t we just lingering collisions of our past? </span></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">uncovering what i envelop, unveiling a part of you,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">the warmth that once rested in me, </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">through time</span></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">formed you. </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">i wonder, i ponder</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">why i’m reminded of home at your sight<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">only to realise that with time,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">i recognise your soul, </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">as mine.</span></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;"><div style="text-align: center;">that in our past lives,</div><div style="text-align: center;">before the diamonds, the shine</div><div style="text-align: center;">you and i existed, parallel</div><div style="text-align: center;">and shared fragments that now,</div><div style="text-align: center;">reside in your eyes </div></span><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">although you don’t remember,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">and they’ll call me strange forever,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">knowing you’ll never encounter,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">in this life, </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">i’ll wait till next time,</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: courier;">for you </span><span style="font-family: courier;">to realise</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">the histories that shape us,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: courier;">the emotions that make us. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-17853267311506840032021-02-07T16:38:00.002+11:002021-02-07T16:39:44.246+11:00New things & updates<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />My art shop: </span></div><b style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><a href="https://enchantedclub.bigcartel.com/">Enchanted Club Prints</a><br /></i><br /></span></b></div></b></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Updated custom poetry/ illustration shop: </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.buymeacoffee.com/enchanted">Enchanted Club Custom</a><br /></span></i><br /></b></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">New video:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hLbogwrIYX8" width="320" youtube-src-id="hLbogwrIYX8"></iframe></div><p></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-51478150324761041842021-02-05T14:57:00.004+11:002021-02-05T15:03:56.743+11:00Quarantine Notes<div style="text-align: center;"><b>---- FOUND THIS IN MY DRAFTS FROM JULY OF 2020----</b><br />I have left it unedited </div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div><b>090720</b></div>Melbourne is in lockdown for a second time now and it's literally the first day of the restrictions being in place. I'm already spiralling downwards. When it happened the first time around, I kept myself buy with uni work and I didn't realise how much relief I felt knowing that my floor-mates were basically going through the same thing, because if they could do it, so could I. But this time around, it the fucking holidays. How am I meant to keep myself busy and occupied when I can't even leave the enclosure that are the 4 walls of my tiny student accomodation room. I know that there are worse things happening to people and my privileged ass sounds so stupid right now, but I feel trapped. I'm scared that I'll fall into the lap of depression again and I'll be in pain. can try and tel myself that I am in control of how I make myself feel but it's difficult to keep repeating that to myself when theres not much else to occupy my brain with. I have a lot of worries about the next uni semester too and it all just seems so much. I had a thought the other day that what if my entire lifespan is spent in this virus infected world where there are constant restrictions and limitations. The thing it, that that is a very real possibility. I'm afraid that I'll spend my life, not really have lived it, trapped. <div><br /></div><div>I'm exhausted and tired but not enough to fall asleep too, I lie awake for hours on end and keep waking up mid sleep too, there is just so much frustration and hopelessness. A part of me knows that maybe the intensity of my emotions right now can be blamed on getting my period soon, I know I get over neurotic around that time of the month, but GOD do I feel just gross. </div><div><br /></div><div>Right now, I'm literally just typing for the sake of having something to do, so maybe I'll write out a brief description of my dream last night. It was sort of like the Indian movie Highway, I was basically getting infatuated by someone who worked for my family at my aunty's home back in Jaipur. I had just arrived from somewhere and he had helped my unload my luggage from a bus, only for it to all somehow fall out of the several bags I was carrying (?), but anyways I was repacking everything that had fallen out when I realised I had forgotten to pick up one of my suitcases from the bus that was stored in one of those side storage spots busses usually have, and so basically I asked that guy who helped me to unload if he can go get it for me, but just then the bus left. So he called up the bus driver for me and went all the way to where the bus had travelled to, to get my suitcase for me and even put up with the grumpy bus driver (basically this man was simping me lmao). That's about what I remember from it. I know at some point I saw my parents there too and the there was a car driving past where I was sat and repacking my bags when the car suddenly made a loud sound and one of its wheels bursted (?). Anyways, I tend to forget what I dream most of the times so maybe to keep myself occupied throughout the day, if I do dream, I'll write about it. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>100720</b></div><div>I woke up after a 3 hour sleep this morning, my body keeps waking itself up at such odd times. I'm always tired and I fall asleep so late, it doesn't make sense to me why I'd just wake up naturally after such a short amount of sleep. I do wish that when that happens though, I stay awake instead of falling back asleep because then I over compensate and over sleep. I eventually got out of bed around 1pm then.... I feel disgusting when I get up that late. There is no in between, but I guess today I didn't feel so guilty for sleeping in till that late because it is holidays right now, there is nothing much I can do since it's lockdown and I got my period. The things with periods is that it lets me feel sorry for myself. It lets me actually take a break without feeling guilty or without driving myself into depression, so even though I'm in physical pain, I can at least use that as an excuse to give myself a rest. </div><div>I started watching the show Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, I needed something new to binge and I finished a whole season last night, but now that just means that I watched the good part of the show in one sitting. Just like any other show (except Brooklyn99) it just gets bad after season 1 and yeah it's already starting to disappoint 3 episodes into season 2.</div><div>I went out to pick up my takeaway a few hours ago and I'm surprised how many people are still out. It's like no one in this area wants to accept that there is a second lockdown, there are people everywhere and even the library was open?? By the time I got there though, it was going to close in about half an hour but I decided to just go in and look through a book or something just for a change in routine. I'm glad I went because honestly just being away from my room, even if it was only for 30 mins, kept me somewhat sane today. I just flipped through a book about Ancient Egypt. I wish the library was open on weekends, if it's still open next week, I'll definitely go in even if its just to read my own book but in a different space. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>110720</b></div><div>Just came back from a quick trip to Coles. It didn't really feel like lockdown today, it was so gloomy and drizzling the entire day and usually when it's like this I don't think about leaving my house anyways so I didn't have this constant urge to be social or leave to do something. It wasn't until I stepped out in the dark to get some ice cream from Coles when it all sort of hit me again. It's only been like 3 days of lockdown and I really don't know how I'm going to make it through 6 more weeks of this. I'm grateful that I have the internet to keep me busy and my friends to always chat to but not having anyone irl is going to turn me insane. </div><div>On another note, I made a curry today using one of those instant Japanese curry blocks and it tasted like this curry I love, which I used to pay $13 for, so it was a nice surprise that I could just make it myself. I usually hate cooking, I don't get people who enjoy it, it takes so much time and the whole thing is so subjective if you think about it. I don't have patience as it is so that probably adds to my dislike of it. </div><div>I'm glad I've been writing everyday, even if its just sort of briefly recapping my day. Roald Dhal used to write everyday, regardless of if he had something to write about or not. Rupi Kaur also said somewhere that the key to being a good writer is just to do it everyday. They're both amazing writers and I mean if it worked for them, there must be something to it. I know for me, I produce my best work when I'm in the depths of my depression but recently I've been thinking about how long it's been since I created a fictional piece. I used to be so good at them in high school, when they gave us a picture and asked us to write a story around it. I remember everyone used to complain about about the task but honestly that used to be my favourite thing ever. I want to get back into doing it but I'm sort of scared that I don't have the skill anymore and that I'll just end up disappointing myself (or maybe I'm just being lazy). </div><div><br /></div><div><b>120720</b></div><div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><font face="inherit">I am so sick and tired of seeing thin pretty girls I’m just so fucking over it. My eating disorder has been so triggered these past few days, it’s definitely the product of just sitting around in isolation without literally anything to do that has my head wrapped up in all sort of bullshit about myself. I know none of this shit really matters, my body weight, how I look and what size I wear are all such shallow things at the end of the day and when you look at it on the greater spectrum of things that should matter but it’s so difficult to be in love and live with yourself when the whole world seems to hate you for those exact reasons. I genuinely was getting better at accepting myself and I’m definitely in a better place than I was even last year but that’s why it’s so fucking frustrating to feel this about myself. Everywhere on Instagram are just thin girls, like how the fuck do I look at that and not think to myself that it’s my fault I don’t look like them and that if I looked like them then everyone and me would think I’m pretty because those girls are pretty. Like I’m not supposed to have a fat stomach and my such big thighs and if those other girls can be thin and elegant then why can’t I have that fuck I’m so tired.</font></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><font face="inherit"><br /></font></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><font face="inherit"><b>150720</b></font></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><font face="inherit">It's been a difficult few days. I'm not doing too well with my mental health but at the same time what I'm feeling is so far beyond my current understanding of my </font>emotions<font face="inherit">. I feel empty and helpless but at the same time I know there is no point dwelling on it. I didn't write the last 2 days, whats on my mind I cannot say. I guess I feel a bit better today, I'm just trying to distract myself from thinking about it all day. I am tired but its okay. </font></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><font face="inherit"><br /></font></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">180720</p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Recently I've become more aware of my autonomy. I feel a lot more in control of my life and I feel like I'm developing a sense of self. I have always felt like a side character in my own story, as cheesy it is to put it like that, its been difficult for me to think of myself as my own person and make decisions for myself, I have always felt like I was 'someone's something', like my relations to others is what made me, rather than just having my own identity. Referring to Erik Erikson's stages of Psychosocial Development, I'm around the adolescents to young adulthood stage, which makes complete sense because in this period I'm having inner conflicts about Identity and Role Confusion, as well as Intimacy and Isolation. I can see how this chart fits in with my state of personal development and it's given me a peace of mind. </p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">210720</p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The lockdown situation is not getting any better, and honestly I can't expect it to with how people are dismissing all regulations and rules. I'm glad that they're becoming stricter as the days go by and the number of cases increases, because its about time that we hold people accountable. I know its hard, its hard for me too, I want to have friends over, I want to have something to do everyday, I don't just want to be stuck in my room, but we don't have any other options right now. I'm so ready for this all to be over. These days I wake up and I have no agenda, I have no routine, I have nothing to do. Its frustrating. I get up, and spend the majority of my day just watching documentaries or movies, where is this all going to get me? </p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">250720</p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I got tested for Covid yesterday, I've had some symptoms for a few days now so I thought I might have it. Getting it done was the most uncomfortable thing every. They stick it up your nose so high, worst feeling ever. I don't know, after I got home I just burst into tears. I felt so overwhelmed. There had been son much anxiety built up inside of me and I was tired and </p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">280720</p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I feel so empty today. I woke up feeling a bit off anyways but I tried my best to lift up my mood with a workout, but throughout the day it just kept getting worse. I ended up going for a 2 hour walk, I don't know what I expected to get out of it because I'm back home now and my legs and back hurt so much lol. I just want to cry so I feel better, but I can't get myself to. I miss home too, but I know if I was back, within 2 days I'd just want to be back. It's frustrating not feeling home anywhere. I hope I get out of this funk soon because I really don't want it to spiral out of hand. I need to remind myself that the only thing I have control over is my state of mind and how I think about things. I know this will pass, it won't last forever. </p></div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-55597928986864644002021-01-22T16:09:00.000+11:002021-01-22T16:09:34.882+11:00Spiritual Awakening Notes <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWASmDvDA_lU5B8bqLbcq_NOSLwdPoDSXhjuf1cVnVNf3Fz-wOHxxhUbVUqR5dTGUCAlVNaLeAE7KChjNCU6tFqVEVSKMeZajiHN7umEuf1yfOgTqpA2WpoqkeaTLeSHeXSIGxynUslQ/s1327/IMG_5343.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1327" data-original-width="937" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWASmDvDA_lU5B8bqLbcq_NOSLwdPoDSXhjuf1cVnVNf3Fz-wOHxxhUbVUqR5dTGUCAlVNaLeAE7KChjNCU6tFqVEVSKMeZajiHN7umEuf1yfOgTqpA2WpoqkeaTLeSHeXSIGxynUslQ/w452-h640/IMG_5343.JPG" width="452" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAaEk-HJ1EiQTiec-YXw_CvOc52cHJbpy2pIBT9wx5iki_vCWW6HQUtqYVi4_7stX8P1v7bWccDnCZ1hqn6R53pRjhuN3mRLXfrCL1IBvljP8T7IE6Lmol6r6mESNk7a3UmVzdyifMyQ4/s1860/IMG_5344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1860" data-original-width="1286" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAaEk-HJ1EiQTiec-YXw_CvOc52cHJbpy2pIBT9wx5iki_vCWW6HQUtqYVi4_7stX8P1v7bWccDnCZ1hqn6R53pRjhuN3mRLXfrCL1IBvljP8T7IE6Lmol6r6mESNk7a3UmVzdyifMyQ4/w442-h640/IMG_5344.JPG" width="442" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_c4vngchLNHMxemji7vdsZhbcBrLiK-GCoO9193nURej3NZP_D0c5EG4KKPFOZS53CwAJyA1yrTpEwNOygsKt6lMCc-zdmPp2FdRV2cOzZ42JHst3vJ00T11CXPNbFY5AZ1duX2TBIA/s1999/IMG_5345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1999" data-original-width="1468" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_c4vngchLNHMxemji7vdsZhbcBrLiK-GCoO9193nURej3NZP_D0c5EG4KKPFOZS53CwAJyA1yrTpEwNOygsKt6lMCc-zdmPp2FdRV2cOzZ42JHst3vJ00T11CXPNbFY5AZ1duX2TBIA/w470-h640/IMG_5345.JPG" width="470" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBOhId9vcqQVXtlfqawjUgkeajXIZerSqQWWe450ec9DgISBYghhzTUfZepSgnyDD5RbFcJPozzro8uEo67UMuOj2cNLvg5G6aI72OwY2QnzXGl1rTHJtLuK-Bi_46Zjj6WG2_KVXIoo/s1772/IMG_5346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1772" data-original-width="1450" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBOhId9vcqQVXtlfqawjUgkeajXIZerSqQWWe450ec9DgISBYghhzTUfZepSgnyDD5RbFcJPozzro8uEo67UMuOj2cNLvg5G6aI72OwY2QnzXGl1rTHJtLuK-Bi_46Zjj6WG2_KVXIoo/w524-h640/IMG_5346.JPG" width="524" /></a></div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-60595605013671457862021-01-07T14:47:00.003+11:002021-01-07T14:47:59.166+11:00Been a While<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've been back in Perth for about a month now (I would count the exact days but I don't want to depress myself), and it's been odd. I mean it's 2021 now and that in itself doesn't really seem real. Where did it all go? Everything is happening so fast. I would expect time to move slower here in Perth at least, but I suppose this is an indication to let go of my notions about this place being stagnant. Perth may be small and boring but that doesn't affect my life anymore, I'm no longer attached to this place and so my body cycle no longer lags with it. Anyways, it's around 9.30am right now and I'm just going on this tangent. I'm suffering from a flu (one that I cannot even go to the GP about as they'll fear I have Covid, which I don't and I have sound reasons to know so), and it's sort of made me wanna get back into writing. It's a weird concept because I go long periods of time where I don't write and I just make myself feel shitty about it. Everyone always says that writing is a skill that needs to be practiced everyday to perfect and then when I end up going months without producing any good work I just feel like maybe I'm not made to do this, but then I'm like maybe I'm not letting myself achieve what I'm capable of because I'm plain lazy. Anyways, now that I'm sick and feel gross again, I suddenly have the urge to just type away whatever pops into my head. It's the only consistent thing with my writing- to start pouring out everything once I feel disgusting. Maybe it's an attempt to let go of the weight little by little that feels like it's been pushing my head under the mud (does that even make any sense). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uqynZ5NQdQzr-QWfzsFhaYDBgumYdU1Hqd-fJXI0TwmRt8g0nSNVdLqYHUtXskooZoL_Nb9YsD2IF8MvH2CcpbtZQKxlzlopBNm7tCk89_6JRb-lG8F7AaxkwX9RPEFBbDZauzmBE4k/s2048/IMG_0125.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uqynZ5NQdQzr-QWfzsFhaYDBgumYdU1Hqd-fJXI0TwmRt8g0nSNVdLqYHUtXskooZoL_Nb9YsD2IF8MvH2CcpbtZQKxlzlopBNm7tCk89_6JRb-lG8F7AaxkwX9RPEFBbDZauzmBE4k/w452-h640/IMG_0125.PNG" width="452" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finished this piece in Cervantes</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Now onto another rant for a bit because again, I need to get this weight off me too, and because my fingers seem to just be tying away at this point (making up for all those months I didn't), I've come to the realisation (and I knew this before, but now it's a lot more apparent, perhaps because it's been happening a lot more often) that I have absolutely no idea or no way to predict the new types of emotions and feelings I'm going to encounter as I age. I don't known what about this concept irks me so much- I mean I understand that it makes me feel helpless because of the uncertainty and uncomfortabity but then why do I respond so severely to this than I do to any other aspects of my life that I know will change with time? I know I can delve into my psyche a lot here and conclude that it's what I have the least control over- how changes in my life that are out of my hands will inevitably impact my emotions and how i have absolutely no control over that- but I guess I'll tone it down a tad now. It's just that in the past couple of months I have had to encounter and sit with new emotions that were brought on by situations or circumstances that I never thought I'd have to face. It was even more disarming I guess because I'm such an over-thinker and I make sure I evaluate every single possibility when it comes to anything, and so to have been so thrown off guard recently, so many times, by happenings that I didn't account for, made me feel helpless beyond what I can explain. It doesn't scare me, it just bothers me that I didn't even consider any of those situations a possibility. However, I'd say a thing I truly cherish about myself is my ability to take any of these feelings- no matter how inconvenient- and flip it on it's head and remind myself that I can always take away a great story/ poem/ work of art etc. if I look at it as a lesson and an experience and not just something thats positioned me to lose something or someone or that has 'set me back'. </p><p>As a writer, I take everything that happens to me as an opportunity to be written about, and I'll keep that with me even with the future unpredictable situations and feelings that are to inevitably show up.</p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-42997378530267945812020-11-12T14:55:00.020+11:002023-05-30T14:35:59.224+10:00Clothing: high fashion, fast fashion and mindful purchasing<div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Clothes have provided many cultures with “protection, modesty, and ornament” (Ross, 2008) and are still a significant part of our lives. It is important in symbolizing occupations, celebrations, and culture; and there are etiquettes and rules to dressing up. Clothes also represent status, roles, and personality.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Contemporary fashion is built around its consumers, who have been shaped by the drastic evolution of the fashion industry in the past 20 years. The late 1990s demystified and exposed exclusive designs and styles to the average person via the new craze over runways (Bhardwaj & Fairhurst, 2010).<br />‘Luxury fashion’ and ‘high fashion', is less appealing to the wallets of the majority, although, their expensive nature constitutes superior quality and long-lasting materials. However, high fashion is exclusively characterized as ‘superior art’ (Rocamora, 2015) and embodies novelty, constraining its access within the realms of elitism (Rocamora, 2015), rejecting its need by the average person. Although, the rise of social media and celebrity culture continues to fuel the desire of consumers to stay up to date with the latest styles and conform to celebrities (Park & Yang, 2010) meaning that demand has to be fulfilled in other ways. <br /><br />Fast fashion is designed to produce cheap clothes in luxury designs, in a fashion market that is unpredictable and highly impulsive—partly because of fast fashion itself (Chipambwa, 2018.). Despite limited time to make clothes and enormous competition, fast-fashion still aims to make a profit. These time and cost demands have resulted in the number of garments produced annually double since 2000, while the average consumer purchases 60 per cent more (Remy, Speelman & Swartz, 2016). Production and consumption have been difficult on the environment, with an estimate of 23 kilograms of greenhouse gases in making 1 kilogram of fabric (Remy, Speelman, & Swartz, 2016) as according to research on major chain stores, the clothing was manufactured to be worn fewer than 10 times (McNeill & Moore, 2015). <br /> <br />Furthermore, the speed at which the industry pumps out these clothes results in greater reliability on artificial fibres. The increased rate in the production of cotton, usually aided by large amounts of water, pesticides, and fertilizers that current technologies are unable to sustainably dispose of. This has resulted in almost three-fifths of all clothing being incinerated or thrown away less than a year after they are made (Remy, Speelman, & Swartz, 2016). That is how we secured the cycle of purchasing imitations of high fashion, for a fraction of the price, made with low-quality, disposable material.</span></p></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHHF5DJcshnChPDsFoQS2QVhh6WnXQxrLM-Kk1QVKn6chv3SVdpK5kvg_-gosDWogVusmj14B8eaEiGBZMsUZkmF5kUGO2N_FoJB16uf2hxyVxenu5hSiV8-pj9KzkU9MQyyRN9bq5gY/s2048/125191370_2516386295325279_2420832277314857949_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHHF5DJcshnChPDsFoQS2QVhh6WnXQxrLM-Kk1QVKn6chv3SVdpK5kvg_-gosDWogVusmj14B8eaEiGBZMsUZkmF5kUGO2N_FoJB16uf2hxyVxenu5hSiV8-pj9KzkU9MQyyRN9bq5gY/w640-h640/125191370_2516386295325279_2420832277314857949_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Keep the below things in mind when you purchase clothing that is sustainable, strong, and budget-friendly. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <br /><b>(a) Where does this item come from? <br /></b><br />Many popular retailers adopt designs seen on the runway within three to five weeks (Bhardwaj & Fairhurst, 2010). If you go onto the Shein website, for example, you’ll see a large selection of the trendiest items- replicas of the latest trends, for a fraction of what it cost to make the original item. To make clothing in such a short period of time, and on such a large scale, cannot be done without the exploitation of workers and of the environment.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A lot of us also engage in, and contribute to this production of fast fashion unknowingly, as the marketing techniques adopted by corporations very effortlessly pull us in. Nasty Gal, for example, always has some sort of sale going on and advertises their cheap rates continuously.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You really must sit back and think about where the item is coming from if it is that cheap and available that quickly after its popularity.<br /> <br /><b>(b) How much wear will I get out of this item?<br /></b><br />Although runway photos and celebrity outfits seem like the ‘it’ styles, it is important to visualize yourself <i>in</i> the item. Before purchasing it, ask yourself, <i>how often will I wear this?</i> and <i>where will I wear it?</i> Allow yourself to visualise the use you will get out of it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sustainable and conscious purchasing does not have to mean spending hundreds on high or designer fashion. Remember, there are many alternatives such as thrifting and second-hand shopping for you to explore different styles and trends.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not only is it cheaper, better for the environment, but also gives you access to many more unique pieces that you’d otherwise not find in fast fashion shopping.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Facebook Marketplace, Thread-Up and Depop are some of the many sites to visit!<br /> <br /><b>(c) What is the quality of this item?<br /></b><br />Natural fibres such as recycled cotton, organic hemp, and organic linen (Rauturier, 2019) will not only age well but also serve as an investment and minimize landfills caused by man-made fibres such as the cheaper polyester.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cheaply made items will deteriorate after several washes, needing replacing- adding to landfill and increasing your expenditure.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Not everyone has access to applying such filters when shopping, however. If you have trouble following these suggestions, you can look at practices such as minimalism, second-hand shopping, upcycling and capsule wardrobes as great alternatives in taking the step towards acquiring a valuable, long-lasting, eco, and wallet-friendly wardrobe.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;"><b style="color: #454545;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span>Re</span><span>ferences</span></b></div></b><span style="color: #454545;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Bhardwaj, V., & Fairhurst, A. (2010). Fast fashion: response to changes in the fashion industry. <i>The International Review of Retail</i>, Distribution and Consumer Research, 20(1), 165-169. <span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;"><a href="https://www.tandfonline.c">https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/09593960903498300</a></span></div></span><span style="color: #454545;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Chipambwa, W. (2018). Staying Competitive in the Fast-Fashion Era in a Developing Economy. <i>International Journal of Costume and Fashion</i>, 18(2), 3. <a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/330286651_Staying_Competitive_in_the_Fast-Fashion_Era_in_a_Developing_Economy"><span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;">https://www.researchgate.net/publication/330286651_Staying_Competitive_in_the_Fast-Fashion_Era_in_a_Developing_Economy</span></a></div></span><span style="color: #454545;"><div style="text-align: justify;">McNeill, L., & Moore, R. (2015). Sustainable fashion consumption and the fast fashion conundrum: fashionable consumers and attitudes to sustainability in clothing choice. <i>International Journal of Consumer Studies</i>, 39(3), 213. <a href="https://onlinelibra"><span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;">https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/ijcs.12169?saml_referrer</span></a></div></span><span style="color: #454545;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Park, S. Y., & Yang, Y. (2010). The Effect of Celebrity Conformity on the Purchase Intention of Celebrity Sponsorship Brand: The Moderating Effects of Symbolic Consumption and Face-Saving. <i>Journal of Global Fashion Marketing</i>, 1(4), 215. <a href="https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs"><span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;">https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/20932685.2010.10593073</span></a></div></span><span style="color: #454545;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Rauturier, S. (2019). What are the most sustainable fabrics. Good on You. <a href="https://goodonyou.eco/most-sustainable-fabrics/"><span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;">https://goodonyou.eco/most-sustainable-fabrics/</span></a></div></span><span style="color: #454545;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Remy, N., Speelman, E., & Swartz, S. (2016). Style that s sustainable: A new fast-fashion formula (pp.2-5). McKinsey & Company. <a href="https://docplayer.net/43670262-Style-that-s-sustainable-a-new-fast-fashion-formu"><span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;">https://docplayer.net/43670262-Style-that-s-sustainable-a-new-fast-fashion-formula.html</span></a></div></span><span style="color: #454545;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Rocamora. A. (2015). High Fashion and Pop Fashion: The Symbolic Production of Fashion in Le Monde and The Guardian. <i>Fashion Theory</i>, 5(2), 129-131. ttps://doi.org/10.2752/136270401779108626<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div></span><span style="color: #454545;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span>Ross. R. (2008). Introduction. Clothing: a global history (pp.6). Polity Press. </span><a href="https://books.google.com.au/books?id=iwprGRt3XkMC&lpg=PP6&ots=hFSu9JkN55&dq=Ross.%20R.%20(2008).%20Introduction.%20Clothing:%20a%20global%20history%20pp.6.%20Polity%20Press.&lr&pg=PP6%22%20%5Cl%20%22v=onepage&q&f=false"><span class="s1" style="color: #e4af0a;">https://books.google.com.au/books?id=iwprGRt3XkMC&lpg=PP6&ots=hFSu9JkN55&dq=Ross.%20R.%20(2008).%20Introduction.%20Clothing%3A%20a%20global%20history%20pp.6.%20Polity%20Press.&lr&pg=PP6#v=onepage&q&f=false</span></a><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div></span></span>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-11016304982998836882020-10-24T18:08:00.003+11:002023-05-30T14:35:36.027+10:00Women & female characters I love<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzj0cCfyoI7CkChMXEvI52II51aIVIHJlfwlV-XwpkKsy1ENGFsfMTB2JoE1OiTlnsg4zAAhpfqt_OsYKXur_N8SnE6OCS2ns4URTPJsRe-PxdqT00e2y5pbokb0gMrOoa3iHUMdnXDZo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1620" data-original-width="1620" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzj0cCfyoI7CkChMXEvI52II51aIVIHJlfwlV-XwpkKsy1ENGFsfMTB2JoE1OiTlnsg4zAAhpfqt_OsYKXur_N8SnE6OCS2ns4URTPJsRe-PxdqT00e2y5pbokb0gMrOoa3iHUMdnXDZo/w640-h640/122502203_351558896055009_2824856777307026164_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-74244877575949219622020-10-05T23:53:00.001+11:002023-05-30T14:35:19.573+10:00Trying out: Comics <h3 style="text-align: center;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;">1. Anxiety:</h3><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-fOO6vwLtpcf9HMTla0Sg8m0OtTL2ui7O4JeIoTS0w4xSqM_ZyzXlkAjSRMIVRNov7GscINPAwx3vprNNgfvDyF0IcXwLjRTa7vnWPjm_je0yluNMAYay-LBquX3Yfv_hzyxk8kvUeI/s2048/FB69A0CE-789D-48D2-BD1D-DDA74786B388.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-fOO6vwLtpcf9HMTla0Sg8m0OtTL2ui7O4JeIoTS0w4xSqM_ZyzXlkAjSRMIVRNov7GscINPAwx3vprNNgfvDyF0IcXwLjRTa7vnWPjm_je0yluNMAYay-LBquX3Yfv_hzyxk8kvUeI/w640-h640/FB69A0CE-789D-48D2-BD1D-DDA74786B388.png" width="640" /></a></div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;">2. Having a fall:</h3><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPiYSzMn7I1KtmuLT-tdZWd3NyyZ_kD9bplA9ZpvFuv6haO7YVtLTauepIgxLm2AN_t37J6D41vlOl5QLSZXKelL5OObDOLaM9e-2Ruf-KBGjwVhCqY2HmhLhEebntodMXqfclyfug744/s2048/DDA35E37-FFF4-41F8-BE23-AD37C7401EBF.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPiYSzMn7I1KtmuLT-tdZWd3NyyZ_kD9bplA9ZpvFuv6haO7YVtLTauepIgxLm2AN_t37J6D41vlOl5QLSZXKelL5OObDOLaM9e-2Ruf-KBGjwVhCqY2HmhLhEebntodMXqfclyfug744/w640-h640/DDA35E37-FFF4-41F8-BE23-AD37C7401EBF.png" width="640" /></a></div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;">3. Writer’s journey:</h3><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_V31TaSAZuJdjN0RdDYVu3xr8CpvHHymfkvVABiteIE2NkvY90HG1HYOGat5h65oyGE2RSU-tRxpKfEUpv4d2G4W60QAqd0nnTGTUlsDGrFQHNubC4ZnCarOWtYDjuEDhWOlJYsDrX8/s2048/A3CFE1FF-A64B-479D-8238-E445E18FCC06.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_V31TaSAZuJdjN0RdDYVu3xr8CpvHHymfkvVABiteIE2NkvY90HG1HYOGat5h65oyGE2RSU-tRxpKfEUpv4d2G4W60QAqd0nnTGTUlsDGrFQHNubC4ZnCarOWtYDjuEDhWOlJYsDrX8/w640-h640/A3CFE1FF-A64B-479D-8238-E445E18FCC06.png" width="640" /></a></div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;">4. Just a thought:</h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhpOa17KsG2nv08fJFolE8K_IkpNSKHE3KmQ4JLsxp0rnwO1Xyzw4NlPSIpFM1QTFj04T3OBwW4sJThyphenhyphenU0KaNiDuIAics1qlL-lUw9YWv0pJp47Qp0EuYIXY7SH2Ya1dmgtTlBYHrddE/s2048/7752C15B-9A61-4860-A162-E1389636B6E5.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhpOa17KsG2nv08fJFolE8K_IkpNSKHE3KmQ4JLsxp0rnwO1Xyzw4NlPSIpFM1QTFj04T3OBwW4sJThyphenhyphenU0KaNiDuIAics1qlL-lUw9YWv0pJp47Qp0EuYIXY7SH2Ya1dmgtTlBYHrddE/w640-h640/7752C15B-9A61-4860-A162-E1389636B6E5.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div>Hope you enjoyed these! I've been having so much fun drawing these lil comics on my iPad and although they're not perfect, it makes me happy to be able to draw out something thats been on my mind and to see a visual image that I've created out of an idea. I'm so used to writing, as it is my primary medium and always will be, but to draw these up for dumb little ideas ideas I have or things that've been on my mind has been really fun to experiment with! </div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-23412425243208512542020-09-29T21:42:00.000+10:002020-09-29T21:42:05.495+10:00 My favourite watches of 2020<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzenGFIzA-8mhYPl7O1TeZPJP3GZJQzHYEclcGlxZeIItMCLDWsF4fTkDC8G3eNWdYe9WTDkaxMjHHzPuxiOuey2egpN45tXARh2Gh_c_878do-mX1QfRo04C3J_kw2RaDzQ9rs9W7Ds/s2048/IMG_0044.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1448" data-original-width="2048" height="453" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzenGFIzA-8mhYPl7O1TeZPJP3GZJQzHYEclcGlxZeIItMCLDWsF4fTkDC8G3eNWdYe9WTDkaxMjHHzPuxiOuey2egpN45tXARh2Gh_c_878do-mX1QfRo04C3J_kw2RaDzQ9rs9W7Ds/w640-h453/IMG_0044.PNG" title="zoom in !" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">ZOOM IN !</div>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7154542603433028724.post-85816111205417808492020-09-11T20:37:00.006+10:002023-05-30T14:34:43.219+10:00Immortal Till Not<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlo7fdb1We3_9Xluu41t6uSzuOpTT1w6B0WATbdbUuNI8rkknUGU6xxNPePU0Q7y0I1QI2o1ayZOb-3wbxdTIvkP_-SA3nQzg5tMaNgqy_jB7KiyyJJGoWLws-l3w9H9HQFzER1WpM_0/s2048/32BDEEE5-0E1E-4894-AF73-F0A2C43E9106.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1570" height="1220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlo7fdb1We3_9Xluu41t6uSzuOpTT1w6B0WATbdbUuNI8rkknUGU6xxNPePU0Q7y0I1QI2o1ayZOb-3wbxdTIvkP_-SA3nQzg5tMaNgqy_jB7KiyyJJGoWLws-l3w9H9HQFzER1WpM_0/w936-h1220/32BDEEE5-0E1E-4894-AF73-F0A2C43E9106.jpeg" width="936" /></a></div><p></p>Aastha Agrawalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07730056854709379554noreply@blogger.com0