Working to a Clear Plane

Inspiration can only come from accepting the natural order of the living. An order crucial to our walks; our core. Yet we see that the living are made to evolve. To grow. And it is in learning each stance that we start to dance through each move. Indeed, we may learn to manipulate the art of life itself.

Our dance is a ploy, for unaccustomed as we are to learn, there are times when it is in the grace of a timely pace that we move swiftly in the arms of change. But it is to the beat of the mind that we are bound. Bound to bend to the power of creation, of the rules and ties we have clasped, and the solitude in which we rose. To break is unnatural; an unknown path. And in stuttering strokes, twined tracks of fear lay camouflaged within this lighted trail of spring.

A trail of a rise. A trail we no longer bring. A change. The heart can however lie and defy what the mind already knows. And it is in defiance that the charcoal lined course signposts its way through the iron-laden fog of the diverse. The plane.

And upon this plane, in floating alongside and clearing the mist one woven strand at a time, we allow our wombs to breathe. To be accustomed to grow. And we let our hearts be nourished through the mind. A new bend. Our own.

We create and manipulate the forms that our art can take.

We decree.

Losing

At a loss.
To be lost.
To lose.

All of the above.

Another Year

Exactly six years to this date and time.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon.

My Write

There are times when it feels as though ghosted traffic screams through you as you stand on a deserted road, struck by a realisation so severe that neither awe nor fear can translate the design.

How different we are. How different.

Neither logic nor love works on those who have lost their fight, for they wish to no longer believe. A choice.

Time only works to strengthen their cause, their resolve; a victory of sorts. But such triumph can only bring grief to those that have already left. Disappearing footprints remain as a testament over the void that the darkness now fills. Already at a different plane.. A purer rise. To suffer is to return, and in return, to suffer is waived. And to move beyond is to bid all a disdainful farewell. A choice.

I cannot.

He(r)art

Desert Fairy

Gritty

Painting a green world

Art refers not only to the traditional forms of poetry, prose and paint, but it is the vision with which we adore and engross ourselves in the expressions that signify the discoveries to which we concede. It is in this, an ability that is almost intuition itself, that we forget, in fact, it is all an art.