Stars don't disappear, they keep blazing...

You're saying it's hopeless, 

heaven can help us, 

and maybe she might.

You say it's beyond us,

I'm trying to save us,

You blame human nature,

and say it's unkind.

Let's make up our own minds, 

we've got our whole lives -

let's see and decide.

Falling out the window...

What if everything we've been taught and thought we knew is more complicated than we ever imagined? What if maybe the opposite is true as well? Because, if bad can sometimes come from good actions, where does it ever say, anywhere, that only bad can come from bad? Maybe sometimes the wrong way is the right way? You can take the wrong path and it still comes out where you want to be? Or, spin it another way, sometimes you can do everything wrong and it still turns out to be right? I guess what I'm trying to say is that maybe we shouldn't give up on our dreams, just because our path seem unfamiliar, and those before us would deem it foolish and irresponsible to pursue.

I still love you everyday...

... just not the lover kind of way.

My home was never on the ground...

I have found, through agony and thought, that the life we want does not happen all at once. We are constantly in a state of growing and transforming. It takes a long time, and that's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are done, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are real, once you are true, you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand, people who are still on their way. So I sat in my room, listening to the sound of his sleeping breath with a smile on my face, and I realised that it wasn't just the sound of breathing, but the voice of life, the voice of being, the voice of perpetual becoming.

He's too young to die...

The great miraculous bell of translucent ice is suspended in mid-air. It rings to announce endings and beginnings. And it rings because there is fresh promise and wonder in the skies. Its clear tones resound in the placid silence of the autumn day, and echo long into the silver-blue serenity of night. The bell can only be seen at the fall of the year, when the days wind down into nothing, and get ready to march out again. When you hear the bell, you feel a tug at your heart ... hold still. Stay there and tease back the layers. You are in the space between your comfort zone and infinity. You want to hide ... not be seen, not be open, not be vulnerable, but you have to. There are two ways to do this - soft and gentle or fast and hard. Both will get you to the other side, if you let them.

I was still a young boy when I heard the music that ended the first phase of my life and cast me hurtling into a new horizon. Drenched to the skin, I stood at that train station peering upwards through diagonal rain, looking for the train that would take me home. It was there that I finally heard it: like sonic scalpels, the sounds of something that felt familiar, yet I couldn't quite recognize. My body hairs pricked up, each one a willing receiver, and to my young ears, the sound of these amplified guitars was angelic - although, in hindsight, I don’t suppose angels would take the time to play me sweet nothings. I heard a voice that suggested vocal chords of polished silver soared alongside razor-sharp overdriven riffs. I knew that I was hearing my future.

The hardest truths to face...

As it turns out, life is not sitting in hot amorphic leisure in the backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved you. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing - singing, laughing, learning. This is what it feels like: becoming the master of your life. Even though one continuously rebelled against it, at one point it feels like the only natural progression to your life. And so it was with him. What to do? Where to turn? What ties, what roots? Questions he ponders, as he hangs suspended in the strange thin air of back-home? Which people to leave behind, and who to fight for? What to let go, and what to forever hold dear?

I'll help you hate me...

I know you wanna see me falling out, 

falling out the window.

I know you wanna see me crashing down, 

crashing with my plane.

Baby, I'm way too young to die,

but I'll help you get over me.

Remember my name...

I know you all over again...

So happy it turns back to sad...

You expect to be sad in the fall. Part of you dies each year when the leaves fall from the trees and their branches are sent against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you know there will always be the spring, as you know the river will flow again after it is frozen. And at no other time does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe essence of every living thing; a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost, something incredibly nostalgic and significant, as we bare witness to the annual cascade of autumn leaves.

Walking through the midnights...

Time in itself, absolutely, does not exist; it is always relative to some observer or some object. Without a clock or a clock without hands, what would time be? Without matter time itself is unknowable, for it is a function that needs to be measured in order to be known. Time is a function of matter; and matter therefore is the clock that makes infinity real.

His eyes were of different colours, the left as brown as autumn, the right as gray as an ocean wind. Both seemed alive with questions that would never be voiced, as if no words yet existed with which to frame them. His face was as fresh as an apple and as delicate as blossom, but a marked depression in the bones beneath his left eye gave his features a disturbing asymmetry. His mouth never curved into a smile. The universe, it seemed, had withheld that possibility, as surely as from a blind man the power of sight. He was touched - by genius, by madness, by the darkness, or by a conspiracy of all these and more. He took no sacraments and appeared incapable of prayer. He had a horror of clocks and mirrors. By his own account he spoke with angels and could hear the thoughts of animals and trees. He was passionately kind to all living things. He was a beam of starlight trapped in flesh and awaiting only the moment when it would continue on its journey into forever.

The world is on fire...

The life I have imagined for myself is somehow slipping from memory, and if anything, we are all the pieces of what we remember. We hold in ourselves the hopes and fears of those who love us. As long as there is love and memory, there is no true loss. So now, as I have entered a time of great success, both personally and professionally, I find people around me being in owe, yet what they don't know is that this isn't nearly my finish line. I am still steadfast on reaching further, but what I've accepted is that my journey in not about giant leaps, it's about small, yet firm steps. It's about enjoying every moment of ones path, and not obsessing if you're moving slower than you had hoped - as long as you're on your way, and as long as you find joy in the path ahead, then you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

Everyone prays in the end...

You won't find me in church reading the bible,

I am still here and I'm still your disciple.

I'm down on my knees, I'm begging you please,

I'm broken, alone, and afraid.

I'm not a saint, I'm more of a sinner,

I don't wanna lose, but I fear for the winners.

When I try to explain, the words run away,

that's why I stood here today.

Still your disciple...

Find what you've become...

A bird flashed across the empty sky. A cart immobile on the horizon, like a midday star. How could something like this be remade? Yet someone would, no doubt, attempt to repeat their journey, sooner or later. This thought made them feel they should be at once very careful and very daring: careful not to make a mistake that would render the repetition impossible; daring, so that the journey would be worth repeating, like an adventure or like a clock that measures the passage of time, now out of order, now repaired, and whose mechanism generates despair and love as soon as its maker sets it going? Is he to grow used to the idea that every man relives ancient torments, which are all the more profound because they grow comic with repetition? That human existence should repeat itself, well and good, but that it should repeat itself like a hackneyed tune, or a record a drunkard keeps playing as he feeds coins into the jukebox?

Deep in the dark...