If you don't seek it, you won't see it...

Release your anger, 

release your mind,

release your job, 

release the time,

release your trade, 

release the stress,

release the love, 

forget the rest.

Falling back on me...

I believe fully that if you want to do something, you just go do it. You can sit around, think about it, waiting until things are perfect, wringing your hands, dithering and hesitating and slowly twisting your panties into a perfect little fisherman's knot. Or you can do proper research, think it through and then do fucking something. What's the worst that can happen?

Real risk isn't always grandiose. The act of swallowing bravery is often so minuscule, it goes completely unrecognized by the outside world. In due time our psyches and souls are primed to adapt, integrate, and digest even the rustiest, clankiest, most bitterly jarring parts of life; to become more comfortable with the uncomfortable so much so that it becomes life force. Microdoses help us build the fortitude to absorb, integrate, expand, contribute, and construct the new matrix of presence and inner-beingness. The cumulative effect of such actions cannot be overstated. Consistent small acts of bravery have powerful, palpable effects. Vitality emerges through the nourishment of real droplets of risk, sustained over time; not impulsive grand gestures and binges disguised as noble and big.

All I ever see inside is you...

I've been kind and I've been ruthless...

And some day there will be nothing left of everything that has twisted my life and grieved it and filled me so often with such anguish. Some day, with the last exhaustion, peace will come and the motherly universe will gather me back home. It won't be the end of things, only a way of being born again, a bathing and a slumbering where the old and the withered sink down, where the young and new begin to breathe. Then, with other thoughts, I will walk along streets like these, and listen to streams, and overhear what the sky says in the evening, over and over and over.

I was one thing, now I'm being another...

I have this picture of a life within me, a faith, a challenge, and I am ready for deeds and sufferings and sacrifices. But I am becoming aware by degrees that the world is asking no deeds and no sacrifices of me whatsoever, and that life is no poem of heroism with heroic parts to play. I still think I could have a great part to play, because life, I think, must in the end be in the right, so then if life scorned my beautiful dreams, one could argue, it was my dreams that were stupid and wrong headed. But no, I don't believe that for one second. I am certain, to the point of utter delusion, that my dreams have been right a thousand times over, just as her's had been. It was life and reality that were wrong.

Heard one thing, now I'm hearing another...

Happiness is a butterfly,

try to catch it like every night,

it escapes from my hands into moonlight.

Every day is a lullaby,

I hum it on the phone like every night,

and sing it for my baby,

during this wild life.

Where it mends or it breaks...

Oh how incomprehensible everything was, and actually sad, although it was also beautiful. He knew nothing. He lived and ran about the earth and rode through forests, and certain things looked so challenging and promising and nostalgic: a star in the evening, a blue harebell, a reed-green pond, the eye of a person or a cow. And sometimes it seemed that something never seen yet long desired was about to happen, that a veil would drop from it all, but then it passed, nothing happened, the riddle remained unsolved, the secret spell unbroken, and in the end he grew old and looked cunning ... or wise ... and still he knew nothing ... perhaps, he was still waiting and listening.

As every flower fades and as all youth departs, so life at every stage, so every virtue, so our grasp of truth blooms in its day and may not last forever. Since life may summon us at every age be ready, heart, for parting, new endeavor, be ready bravely and without remorse to find new light that old ties cannot give. In all beginnings dwells a magic force for guarding us and helping us to live. Serenely let us move to distant places and let no sentiments of home detain us. The vosmic dpirit seeks not to restrain us but lifts us stage by stage to wider spaces. If we accept a home of our own making, familiar habit makes for indolence. We must prepare for parting and leave-taking or else remain the slaves of permanence. Even the hour of our death may send us speeding on to fresh and newer spaces, and life may summon us to newer races. So be it, heart: bid farewell without end.

I just want to dance with you...

I swore this one would be different...

Learning the hard way...

To speak your truth, is often all that is required. To be heard, with all purpose, to be acknowledged. To be seen, in all colors and all deformity, is liberation. And yet be tolerated, and even forgiven, for our failures. That is happiness without thought. Work with pleasure; when tired, given rest; when hungry, being fed; when sad, restored. Not excused, but loved. Maybe it's time for me to go to sleep and trust that another sunrise will renew what the full moon couldn't clear away tonight. During all that time, I might've not found the light of the moon, but I rested deeply with the sound of the raindrops, while gazing at the quiet sky flowing slowly. What a crucial moment to be alive, I thought. 

Look into my wishful eyes...

Hold my hand, 

everything will be okay.

I heard from the heavens,

that clouds have been grey.

Pull me close, 

wrap me in your aching arms.

I see that you're hurting, 

why'd you take so long,

to tell me you need me? 

I see that you're bleeding,

you don't need to show me again,

but if you decide to, 

I'll ride in this life with you,

I won't let go 'til the end.

Late night talking...

Writing is supposed to reflect your journey through life. Your discovery of your character in solitude and around other people, the moments of clarity when you feel loved and the moment when your heart breaks so much that you can hear it crack. When you run careless and free on open fields and when you're struggling on your way home on the bus. Experiences, moments, stories. Falling recklessly in love, and then learning to belong to yourself again. Going to new places, meeting new people, driving in the middle of the night on empty streets. Going to the ocean and staying there until sunrise, smoking cigarettes and talking about your cheesy dreams. Thinking about the worst of times and the best of times all engulfed into one single entity. I can barely still remember ... good thing I have it all written down. 

Running up that hill...

If I was a bluebird...

There's a haze on the horizon...

There's a whole lot of road, a path entirely mapped out with a bunch of pebbles, some already warmly enwrapped in his knapsack, while some lay wonderfully laden in his journey. A whole lot of people, a bunch of stars and a handful amount of time, does he find himself alone? No, it cannot be yet he seeks out company, in a blister of hope, while all along something inside of him bathes in majestic solitude. Did he find peace? Rather does he seek peace? In a tangle of dreams, in a knot of illusions where would he walk? Which road, which path would he find himself walking down the trail of?

Is it the one that his soul yearns for or the one that is slithering through his mind, is it the one that his heart churns out from the vessel of lost time, or the mirage of time, in a mirror of passionate embers of his limitless soul. He walks by, he comes close, for dreams are but dead flowers when the spring gives in to winters of a sunset porch. And there but stands one fire, ignited through the countless stars dancing in a mad jest of a gypsy soul, a heart that never tires of its dreams softly kissing the stars of a distant paradise. So leads the way, where the journey unfolds in tiptoeing the vagabond mind, in decluttering all that is vaporised through the written pages of a story unwritten, to caress the pages yet to come, in a cocoon of a heart that never stops.

Churchill downs as motivation...

A good life is not a sprint. There really is no need to rush. Especially not when everything before you consists of stone walls. A good life is an exerting marathon of purpose, passion, patience and perseverance. It's the road where faith and hard work meet. It is an unusual love adventure between success and failure. It is where truth is a belt and integrity a shield. It is knowing your lane, staying on it and running your own race. It's a road loathed and less traveled by most men, who are too greedy, grasping for immortality too soon. Perhaps all we need is patience, being content to wait, and then we can get forever in the end.