It is liberating.. I can feel the water drawing me in, entering my lungs and clearing my breath. The voices in my head, the screaming and the dreaming.. It all comes to silence. This is liberating, letting go and not moving a muscle, not trying to resurface. Watching the sunlight scattering all over me like a million falling stars. I can hear some people mumbling around the lake, some shadows. But I’m smiling, I’m letting go. I feel comfortable, it feels like a mother’s womb. Warm, holding me close, washing away all my pain. I can’t breathe no more but look at those tiny bubbles, they’re my life.. I’ll give it all away and what not, to stop these voices inside my head. Look, a tear running down my cheek, it feels warm and peaceful. Should I resurface or let go? I feel like I’m drowning and it’s kinda beautiful…
Long time ago, a man started to run..
Didn’t know the destination or why did he begin..
The sweat on his face glistening under the sun..
Captivating like gold, thus joined another man..
Hungry and tired they found a melon..
To share or keep became the survival question..
One killed another and thought he had won..
That victory, that power, was it all for fun?
Since then men joined a journey that never ends..
Like hamster on a wheel, captivated; we run..
Image credits: Getty images©
Shall I not devote my heart,
To the One who holds the mountains firm,
And a myriad of stars in perfect constellations..
For my heart is made of glass..
With a thousands cracks running through..
Been to the mountains of Everest,
and grasses evergreen..
My mother’s wrinkled hands,
the prettiest sight
I’ve ever seen..
They walk around the streets,
Wearing perfume on their sleeves..
Looking to share everything but trust,
Laughing for hours but crying first..
Holding hands but shadows apart,
With bodies of stone and elastic hearts..
© Image courtesy: Fine art America
The color of your soul, is precisely what my darkness seeks..
The compelling strokes of your brush, creating wild ocean peaks..
These cravings that evoke me, more than I’d like to confess..
The touch of your fingertips, for my body is your canvas..
Born with lips so beautiful, but couldn’t utter a word..
Sitting for hours at the window watching the one-legged bird..
Bullied at the school for being so eccentric..
Abused by father for always being a skeptic..
On a mid summer holiday, escaping from the sun..
In grandma’s little cottage, he found a red violin..
They pushed him to the corners for his words were inapprehensible..
The more his fingers and the strings became inseparable..
A boy once running in circles for hours..
Found peace in his violin and the blooming of flowers..
They couldn’t understand him so he was segregated…
Not leaving him alone, now that his music was appreciated..
Closing all the doors behind, shutting out the universe..
All he wanted was the love he felt in singing a verse…
P.S. To all those young beautiful minds suffering from childhood Psychological disorders and the Autism spectrum.. Let’s try to stretch a hand towards them, before they lose faith in humanity and isolate themselves from a world full of opportunities.. Every child deserves to be loved and appreciated the way he is.
Image courtesy: Wandalin Strzałecki – The Violinist