We are here not endlessly but carelessly. It’s all a trapped energy, a secret never known. All my thoughts I tried not to share, you make them come out, but I can’t say that you care. I’ve been in you before.
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Outside their frame, is where they concentrate the blame.
But it is never the same, when you know the wheel is not spinning.
It is you that I am calling. I can’t have it all on my own. I need to share – every silence, dream and stare. You cannot be compared to anything that I ever needed to beware. I would give you every piece of my share, just promise me that you will meet me there – where every sound is heard loudly and every word is spoken proudly.
Now that I’ve met my recompense, I am still speaking in past tense. My memory is a clear mess. You taught how to play this chess with broken figures. But it is your tactics that I never figured.
Leave a comment | tags: art, artist, author, blame, blog, chess, dream, dreams, figure, frame, life, literature, love, march, memory, people, quotes, reality, silence, thought, writer, writing | posted in Literature
He needed not clear his heart for he knew what was inside of it.
He needed to clear his head.
She tried to help. But
her words left only rehearsed and the meaning was not meant to be accepted.
‘If that’s what you want’, she spoke, ‘well, you can have it. I don’t want to sail against high tides or fly in a windy sky.’
And he let it all slip.
The way it never was. March 2014
You call yourself a writer? Go write then, don’t complain about the lack of inspiration. You want to be a writer? Then you’ll have to sacrifice something, your love mainly…Be prepared to be rejected, ignored, don’t-minded, underestimated, looked down to, only because you are truthful and sincere in your life. In your life…what about your writing? Truthfulness, sincerity…your dignity and pride will be totally, fully demolished before you could realize how well you can manage them and how much of them you, in fact, possess. Your head will hurt, your heart will decay but not from the lack of love, from the lack of understanding. All that before you reach that point in your life in which you understand that the most important thing out there is yourself and your art capacity. That your pride is the tool to succeeding consistently and your dignity masters your every act of succession. These two are in a sense of self-respect. That’s all you are, all you ever were, all you’ll ever be. But it is not enough to know it, the key here is to realize it, to feel it in your every bone, to let it rush through your blood and exit you in the form of words. Written, spoken, whatever. All words are art.
But before all that could happen, you will suffer big time. You will be numb, tired, distracted, uninspired, broken, lost. You will stare at the world through only one point of view, and that is lethal for every writer. You will not know what to say, you will not know how to say what scratches your insides. You will not have confidence to use words as a medicine.
It’s better to love desperately than to hate sincerely.
Cut the sun, sweet love – my torment. I want to see the night lights.
Artists are not born to be understood. They are born to make other people understand.