Mist

Speeding through the misty sea in a vessel connecting London and Paris.

Sunken into my imagination, fixed on mind blowing lines and paragraphs.

Thought provoked I look up, facing the window and realise my surroundings.

Suddenly, like I am dragged into a parallel universe, I feel like an angel flying as fast as a jet through heavenly territory.

Euphoria strikes my body.

I will never look at mist the same again.

writer's block and I

In the here and now; are we all just looking to be different? In the here and now when nothing seems to be shocking as much as it used to be. Maybe shocking to the untainted mind but for the rest of us everything just belongs to life and this is what we claim it to be. Life is shocking and if it wouldn’t be; would we be satisfied?

I’ve been searching for sanity and the more I discover it, the less I write. Do we need our past to haunt us to get inspired? There is not much to write if your mind seems content. Even if it isn’t, the urge to be sane pushes the creative mind to a halt.

What we dare to say or not to say. Or maybe it is the urge to be understood. What we write requires to be commonly understood. Or maybe this is death. We ought to draw outside the lines to survive and stay sane; our own sanity and not the commonly understood sanity. For the commonly understood cannot be reality but a false construction of what may be seen as comfortable enough to be ignored.

Shallow minds, no thoughts, no questions, no passion, no desires but false happiness. Empty bodies feeding on commonly understood reality. Lies. Deception. False happiness. The majority.

Suddenly I am petrified to be understood.

We have to live with the knowledge that certain people react intolerant to knowledge.

I'm pro about being a weirdo....but you've got to be able to back it up because you're just a weirdo gone wrong if you can't.. After all, there's a touch of genius and art in weirdnessss

You don't have to look for monsters far when they're in your head.

Lingering quietly, barely recognisable. They come in disguise.

Hiding deep within nevertheless always ready to break free.

Tempted, giving in easily to self-destruction.

Harming whatever they can whatever you let them to.

But the monsters aren't something created by your imagination,

the monsters are you and you are the one who comes in disguise.

Portraying the clean-cut version of terror.

Apparently a pretty face but a pretty face means fuck all to me.. I'd rather have you call me awkward, strange, funny, random, caring, emotional, deep or if you can't think of anything at all, call me human..

To seek your parents' approval is a fight of constant rejection and a soul destroying battle that you may never win unless you give in and approve of yourself..