What Westlife is Doing to Your Beliefs

I didn’t realize this at first, but Westlife is more than just entertaining me.

Westlife was a popular Irish boy band who disbanded in 2012 after 14 years of music. And most of their great songs are love stories.

That is the problem. I love Westlife. But I can’t help but wonder what their music is doing to me.

I have my own ideas about love and relationships. And Westlife is changing my perception. When it comes to love, a lot of musicians sing of perfect, flawless love. I picked Westlife because their words are so simple.

There’s an angel standing next to me, reaching for my heart

Ah! Young love! Nothing like that, huh? See what I mean? Westlife makes you yearn, they make your heart ache and change your beliefs.

What happens when someone who doesn’t believe in love, perfect or not, listens to these songs? Imagine the conflict!

We know perfection isn’t true. No one loves as truly as these songs claim. Perhaps a few exceptions, but in the real world, we know it’s all fiction.

But you can’t help fantasizing. Because? It makes you feel good. And we humans do have this annoying tendency to gravitate towards what makes us miserable. That’s the way we work. It’s what makes us tick.

Not to mention all the wasted time. And the worst thing is, you can’t just forget these songs. “I don’t wanna forget you, I don’t even wanna try” They are too good.

That’s what I mean.

There’s no one like you, to speak to my heart

Now you see.

#CLT “Us against the world.” What can you say? I can’t help it.

Crafting A Dream City

I’ve been following Cristian’s blog for a while and I feel guilty each time I read one of his posts. Because though I’ve had his book on my kindle for a long time, I’ve never read it.

I should have read it sooner.

The one constant in the story is Cristian’s voice. He kept seeping through the words. There were either sentences he often uses in his posts or thoughts that every writer could relate to. The story itself is about artists, art and the consequences of choosing art.

I loved the story. And the main reason: simple words ringing hard in your ears. This book lingers.

“But the truth is, what doesn’t kill you makes you wish it did.” – Cristian Mihai, Dream City

This is Cristian. Every syllable of that line screams Cristian. And it’s more; it’s every artist. And it was gripping that in many places, I felt the protagonist and Cristian interchange. Not just him, I felt myself intermingle with the protagonist too. Because the characters speak to you, and you suddenly realize their life is your life.

The author knows the pain of being an artist, and he translates the emotion with so much art.

That’s it. The essence of everything we do.

The Good O’l Days

Oh, I miss those days,

when all that mattered

was the next class —

carrying a bulky book,

and caressing with a love

that none understood.

I miss that thrill —

of having the book open,

of reading a piece of prose —

or a poem — yes,

I’d like that — a poem.

A war poem, perhaps,

with a touch of sarcasm

and plenty pathos

oh, I’d love that; reading

analyzing, and discussing

the figures of speech and

reading between the lines —

decoding puzzling poetry.

I miss being awed

by the ceaseless Caesar,

and Brutus back stabbing;

the hair that be wires;

and the stunned disbelief

when love’s not love.

I miss those days —

of classroom revelations,

of shared appreciations

and new born respect —

oh, for god’s sake,

I meant for literature.

Time for Some Romance

I don’t much care for romance — well honestly, I hate romance.

I can’t bear to read through sensous words of love in which the boy and girl look into each other for exactly eight seconds before falling for each other. Remember this the 21st century and our protoganists are computer programmers and classical thinkers; statistics matter.

Why don’t heroes gatecrash parties anymore? And fall for the daughter of their sworn enemy? What’s wrong with falling in love with your first love’s cousin — when your first love didn’t reciprocate in the first place?

This is why I don’t read romance. Because it’s too primitive disguised as modern.

But since everyone from my mother to my brother and my cousins (which was all, actually) couldn’t shut up about Love Story, I decided to read it.

Don’t get me wrong; when I say Love Story, I mean the love story, by Erich Segal.

Unsurprisingly, I loved it. And something in it will stay with me forever.

What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died?
That she was beautiful and brilliant
That she loved Mozart and Bach.
The Beatles. And me.

That made me read through the book, and that made me open my mind to romance. In novels, I mean.

Speaking of Sentimentality…

If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that sentiment is a double-sided dagger. As much as I love being sentimental about tiny everyday things, I also regret being ever so emotional.

I know I keep bringing this up, but it’s all about my mother. She annoys me more than anyone else can — or will ever dare to; she calls me at awkward times, keeps repeating the same questions every day, and she’s always popping up everywhere –even when I wish she wouldn’t.

It’s annoying to have a mother that cares so much. But it’s painful not to have a mother that cares as much.

Perhaps it’s because she was always around me as I grew up, but I’ve grown comfortable around her so much that I take the liberty to shout at her without feeling guilty. She made a huge blunder not curtailing that habit of mine. Still, she takes it all in as I shout at her, because she knows I mean not a word of it.

And once I hang up and stare at my phone, realizing how much she must love me to bear with all my mood swings, I can’t help but feel evil. With her being everywhere — even at the back of my mind while I wake in the morning — I care much about her.

I don’t know about her, but every twelve hours, I have an internal alarm that goes off reminding me that it’s time for her pills. And despite having alarms in her phone, she forgets, and nods her head solemnly as I chide her for abysmal medicine memory.

That’s the trouble with caring too much — it hurts me when she’s hurting. I’ve seen what she goes through when she forgets her medicine, and it pains me to even imagine that pain.

And it gets even more annoying when she just shrugs it off with a toothy laugh. On one hand, I love watching her laugh, and on the other, I’m furious that she’s so negligent.

She checks with me five times a day if I had eaten my proper meals, and in the proper time, but she never takes her medicines in the proper time.

Urgh! Her sentiment often puts me off. So much nagging and caring for me, yet not much caring for herself. But it also makes me call her back a second — or third — time, to apologize in a small voice.

After all, moms are the best, aren’t they?

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