The Little Things

A familiar theme that I try to promote through this seemingly anonymous medium is the inherent beauty of the little things in life.
 We walk through the whirlpool of our existence and amidst the din, do not notice what lies in front of us.

But when we take the time, we find that the world is amazing in its beauty and almost sacred in the sights that it presents us. Midnight lamps, grey skies, wild orchids and storm drains, each one represents a slice of life hitherto not noticed.

Lights and more Lights

I have an obsession with lights. The first things that I notice in every new place that I go to, are the lights, natural and artificial.
Although the heavenly design is marvelous in its construction, mankind has not been left far behind. We have created light to illuminate the darkest depths on our planet. Our resourcefulness powers our species forward and has become the hallmark of our generation.
The pictures below are some of the sights that I saw today. There is something comforting about these lights, they are like stars watching over us, watching as we drift away like random bits of data in the infinite data stream of life.

A Few Possessions

As I listen to the beats of "Modern Man" by Arcade Fire playing in the background of a rainy day in Chicago, I gaze out of the window at nothing in particular. The perfect day to stay indoors, I look at the rainwater trickling down my window pane. A lot is found in the seemingly inconsequential drops of water on glass. I do not see the water, I do not see the rain, all I see are flashes of a life, maybe my own or maybe not.

Its cleaning day for me, and as I rummage through the closet and am struck by my vast possessions. I enjoy style and have amassed a collection that is reflective of my aesthetics. But to think of it, is it the other way around? Is my style a consequence of my possessions or are my possessions reflective of my style? I think its the later. They say the clothes maketh the man, I dont think so. Man maketh the clothes. We choose what we wear, and what we wear is defined by our personal tastes. Here are some of mine.

Random Pieces

Life is a series of scattered pieces of a puzzle, disjointed, and disconcerting.
Some pieces are bright and illuminating, some are dark and foreboding, but we try to piece them together.
We don't know if the end image makes sense, but each person gets something different, and the meaning of life lies in how we join them together.
I took some pictures recently but realized that they do not follow any pattern, there was no single unifying factor to these, and therefore I was hesitant in posting them. But then I got thinking. Maybe the purpose of these pictures is that they exist in randomness.. Maybe they were never meant to fit together. Its like life, we try to fit into whatever the world throws towards us, but like pieces of lost puzzles, sometimes we fit and sometimes we do not.

Beauty in the Ordinary

At the end of a long day, I like to stare at nothingness and drift away into my thoughts. Like a log on an ocean, float away into the expansive ocean with nothing but my thoughts for solace.
 Its funny when you think about your life, when you gaze at it from an outsiders perspective, you realize that we all are caught in a bubble. We are all living out someone else's fantasy.
Maybe somewhere out in the infinity, someone wants to be like me, sitting at this table, taking pictures of all that is beautiful in this seemingly ordinary life.

All of the Lights

Light, the universal giver of life. Its existence burgeoned by various daedal devices, some natural and some artificial. Ever since man found his bearing, he recognized the power of light.

Light, the mere existence of which can be heroic.
Light, the presence of it removes all that is ominous in the world.
Light, the giver of warmth, both physical and spiritual.

I try to lull myself to sleep and I cautiously gaze at the lights above with a strange fascination. Maybe it was that insanely late hour, or my perennial melancholy, but the light seemed almost poetic to me, it appeared like a radiant flower in the jungle of darkness. I snapped a quick picture.
It got me thinking of all of the lights that I have seen recently. Each one distinct from the other, each one cloaking the beholder with a distinct emotion, each one telling a story...

All of the Lights

Light, the universal giver of life. Its existence burgeoned by various daedal devices, some natural and some artificial. Ever since man found his bearing, he recognized the power of light.

Light, the mere existence of which can be heroic.
Light, the presence of it removes all that is ominous in the world.
Light, the giver of warmth, both physical and spiritual.

I try to lull myself to sleep and I cautiously gaze at the lights above with a strange fascination. Maybe it was that insanely late hour, or my perennial melancholy, but the light seemed almost poetic to me, it appeared like a radiant flower in the jungle of darkness. I snapped a quick picture.
It got me thinking of all of the lights that I have seen recently. Each one distinct from the other, each one cloaking the beholder with a distinct emotion, each one telling a story...

Winter

Everything looks a tad grayish, the sky, the streets, the grime sullying the pristine snow. People around me dress in colors that reflect the weather. They wear darker colors, not only because it holds the warmth in but also because clothes are reflective of the mood and the weather.
I look up at the sky and I see a creeping emptiness, the sky does not look blue anymore, but the vicinity does. The ghost of the dead trees stare at me like a skeleton stripped of all its defenses. I see people around me but all that I see is a faint image, reality is just a blur, a half focused view that my mind is trying to decode.

Nature's Fury

As the whistling wind blows by, and loudly announces its victory, I struggle to keep the careening car in check. They call it the monster, some call it the storm of the decade, I call it nature.
Somewhere in the universe, a civilization is revolting against its government, people are laughing, some are crying, but huddled on this side of the globe, my city gets attacked by the storm. I call it the white storm, not because of the obvious reason, but because, the storm is the purest form of fury. No matter what our strengths or our successes are, no matter how powerful we have become or the avenues that we have conquered, just a gradual turn of the weather has us scurrying into our creaky abodes.
Mankind, in all its glory, can only cower in face of nature's beautiful fury.