Three years ago eight girls walked into the awe inspiring portals of the Stella Maris College. Eight girls with no apparent similarities besides deciding to take a degree in the same discipline. I guess it's things like this that make you belive in fate, destiny and other such mumbo-jumbo.
I truly cannot remember when i began talking to Tall-Git.I vaguely remember having lunch with KuttyGit,and wondering how she could have raw tomatos and relish them.I don't know when SirGit and ObsGit began to share lunch with us. I have absolutely no idea when exactly Posh Git began to talk at all, forget talking to me. I still can't figure out why SplitGit and the Gits didn't hang out in the first year. And I sure as hell don't know how we located the consummate Gitler and managed to take her case more than anyone else's in the group. Shows how little memory can be trusted to remember important moments. Or may be it's because they weren't real moments but a gradual process, like the movement of the continents to create the world as it is. The Gits are a world of their own. And though each continent(Though Split and Posh are too horizontally challenged to be called continents) is separate in their own way, we are all still part of the same picture. No matter much we may drift-or even have drifted- the truth is that the Gits are cut from the same cloth. They think alike and their ideals are similar. The truth is that we were meant to be friends. "It's Destiny!" to quote Princess Fiona.
Perhaps I'm getting sappy in my old age, but third year does that to you. You realise, all too suddenly, the mortality of these brief golden years.That in a few years each of us will be talking different languages and something-no matter how small, how slight- will change. After all, as Emerson says, "Change is the only constant." And I believe these things need to be said before we reach that Babelian crossroad where we don't really understand what the other is talking about.
The times we shared cannot be caught
in the figures and markings that
some call words.
In an age where fossils rot and amber is burnt,
There is no stone to preserve our memories.
The only ones who'll carry
The bundle of responses-
Waiting to awake for that single stimulus-
Those prized bits of dew:
Are their Creators.
And I do not know,
If the burst of dawn
will burn the dew away anyway,
But I do know that
That dew existed.
And that's all that matters.
Really sad I know. But I'm no Gitler, Golgit, ObsGit or SplitGit to create mind bogglingly amazing poetry :D, I'm not artistically inclined, I am not super efficient, I'm not responsible, I'm not tech savvy, I'm not much of a thinker or an activist. But despite all my nondescripty, the Gits made me feel different, special even (and not in medical sense). For the last few days College has been hell. And I'd like to say that I could not have chosen a better group to go through hell with.
Enough of mush.
Yours forever and a day,
Atomic Gitten
I truly cannot remember when i began talking to Tall-Git.I vaguely remember having lunch with KuttyGit,and wondering how she could have raw tomatos and relish them.I don't know when SirGit and ObsGit began to share lunch with us. I have absolutely no idea when exactly Posh Git began to talk at all, forget talking to me. I still can't figure out why SplitGit and the Gits didn't hang out in the first year. And I sure as hell don't know how we located the consummate Gitler and managed to take her case more than anyone else's in the group. Shows how little memory can be trusted to remember important moments. Or may be it's because they weren't real moments but a gradual process, like the movement of the continents to create the world as it is. The Gits are a world of their own. And though each continent(Though Split and Posh are too horizontally challenged to be called continents) is separate in their own way, we are all still part of the same picture. No matter much we may drift-or even have drifted- the truth is that the Gits are cut from the same cloth. They think alike and their ideals are similar. The truth is that we were meant to be friends. "It's Destiny!" to quote Princess Fiona.
Perhaps I'm getting sappy in my old age, but third year does that to you. You realise, all too suddenly, the mortality of these brief golden years.That in a few years each of us will be talking different languages and something-no matter how small, how slight- will change. After all, as Emerson says, "Change is the only constant." And I believe these things need to be said before we reach that Babelian crossroad where we don't really understand what the other is talking about.
The times we shared cannot be caught
in the figures and markings that
some call words.
In an age where fossils rot and amber is burnt,
There is no stone to preserve our memories.
The only ones who'll carry
The bundle of responses-
Waiting to awake for that single stimulus-
Those prized bits of dew:
Are their Creators.
And I do not know,
If the burst of dawn
will burn the dew away anyway,
But I do know that
That dew existed.
And that's all that matters.
Really sad I know. But I'm no Gitler, Golgit, ObsGit or SplitGit to create mind bogglingly amazing poetry :D, I'm not artistically inclined, I am not super efficient, I'm not responsible, I'm not tech savvy, I'm not much of a thinker or an activist. But despite all my nondescripty, the Gits made me feel different, special even (and not in medical sense). For the last few days College has been hell. And I'd like to say that I could not have chosen a better group to go through hell with.
Enough of mush.
Yours forever and a day,
Atomic Gitten
