How to motivate that friend of yours.

A little appreciation goes a long way and costs nothing. We have that friend who is trying hard to excel at something yet when you look at their work you tell them they’re great.

That is not enough.

All of us need to feel appreciated for what we do. Even inside the cubicle of a MNC, someone is trying to complete a task so that they are told they did well. No applaud, not even a pat on the back- just, ‘Yes this is what I was talking about.’

And he beams, strives to do it well again the next time too.

Imagine Everytime he does something and is told the same thing.

He will always be good enough, but not better.

We want our friends to do better than they are doing. At least friendship is supposed to be about that. And even if I don’t know someone who posts his work, there’s no harm in putting in a word. 

I decided, owing to a lack of feedback on what of my work I shared with people that I will not only hit the like button and rest.

I am going to tell them they’re good.

And then I am going to tell them they can do better.

That is how you motivate someone for daring to follow where their heart leads them.

Forlorn

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You are a devil forlorn:
The surreal stream of my consciousness
Morbid and morose you rise,
Even when it is bright outside.
And I imagine meteor showers as I walk to work.

And for a reason unfathomable,
My feet are at your command,
With roots that perlocate the ground,
When rain falls like a thundershower.

Yet inseparable as we are,
You make me wonder,
What it is like,
To drown,
To burn,
To suffocate,
To be crushed under the weight of bridges that collapse,
When I’d rather shut my mind to thoughts.

And yet you make me meet death,
Time and again.
And see this world in an afterlife:
Tears in my eyes before I go to sleep.

No I don’t want to die.
I have watched myself from the other side,
Again.
And again.
And again.

But you’ve told me countless stories too;
Where I have saved lives,
And where I have discovered magic amongst the clouds.
And who can I credit,
For the fact that I really can,
And I have said this before:
That I really can tell where the nails in someone’s shoe hurts the most.

How I detest you sometimes,
Fickle imagination,
For showing me horrors that only exist in nightmares,
When I am wide awake.
But you have let me know,
That the solitary reaper might be singing,
Somewhere,
When he watches me intently,
As I sing my song.

You make my words come alive,
On paper like castles of sand:
Fleeting.
You, momentary as you are,
Make me the person I know I can be,
And oh,
How I love you for that!

Atonement

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I am currently reading Atonement again. To tell the truth, I came across the movie earlier than I read the book. The movie recommended the book to me. It is a brilliantly made movie, though feels to drag for a while too, specially the later half. But no movie could ever do justice to a book. A movie is just one perspective to view a book. When we read it, we all imagine it to be unique. Our own interpretations of the same scene are entirely different.
The movie is a treat to the eyes and your mind too. There is so much to deduce and the timeline of the plot starts playing inside your mind time and again as soon as you realise there is a play on the interpretation of memories. You want to remember as much as you can.

I am reading the book again because although there is nothing much to miss, I always stumble across a new detail that I hadn’t paid any attention to, earlier.
Ian McEwan is brilliant with the imagery. The scenes are so well illuminated that you see them unfolding right before your eyes. The movement back and forth in time presents a misguided version of the actual events as seen through the eyes of 13 year old Briony.
There is meticulous detailing of appearances and state of mind as well.
The best parts are when the author really delves deep into the stream of thoughts playing inside the character’s mind. A point in case is when Briony is inspecting her fingers and speculating movement:

A

nd when she did crook it finally, the action seemed to start in the finger itself, not in some part of her mind. When did it know to move, when did she know to move it? There was no catching herself out. It was either- or. There was no stitching, no seam and yet she knew that behind the smooth continuous fabric was the real self