About ahechoes

Ahechoes is a passionate writer who writes at http://ahechoes.wordpress.com/ and can be followed at @ahechoes

Imagine having a friend you can always talk to without spending phone credit, or data bundles, or bus fare to go and meet them. All it takes is a kasuku notebook and a Speedo pen and you can rant all you want. It won’t stop you with impatient glances towards their watch. It won’t criticize you for whatever you are saying. And maybe one day, ten years down the line, it will transverse across space and time to whisper to you words applicable to your dilemma or predicament at the time.
You don’t always have to go to Ranting Mode. Sometimes you can go to Recording Mode, just tell your diary every boring detail of the day. Including what you ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Maybe you’re already a writer. Maybe you’ve written on an air sickness bag 15,000 ft above the ground or on a tissue paper inside a coffee shop; writing is an OCD you are not interested in treating because you know treating it would bring about more serious ailments of the mind and heart.
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The problem with being a reader is you don’t just read black text against white paper. You read gestures and body language. You read characters and choice of words. You read what is being said and what is not being said. The silence between the words carry on as much weight as the words themselves, and the interpretations of dialogue…they can be pretty endless. Three tiny words with one syllable each may carry fifteen different meanings, and the thing is, you can’t help but think of the negative meanings and those may give your self-esteem a blow especially if it has a history to reinforce it.

The problem with being a reader is that you tend to link random objects. Specific words get linked with real memories. Continue reading


Love is neither appreciated in its complete presence
nor complete absence
but rather in its lack of presence
the black hole that no one can see
the empty slot in the shelf full of books
the clean square in a thick layer of dust
where a photograph once was
the empty vase where once stood a dead rose
Isn’t it ironic
that the ones who appreciate love the most
are those who have just lost it?

© Anastas Tarpanov

They tell me I should be jealous
Jealous of the woman waiting
By the window for her husband to return
The food turning cold
As hunger claws her stomach

They tell me I should be jealous
Jealous of the woman waiting
By the TV for his leave to be approved
So they could travel to golden sands
Smoothened by the crashing waves
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