Treasure

The greatest lies are the hidden ones,

the buried ones,

the secret ones,

yet so are the greatest

truths

and

the greatest

treasures.

Me

I talk too much and say too little,

I think too much and write too seldom.

I care too much and try too hard,

I don’t hear enough and listen too often.

I allow words to describe me, but I don’t describe how i feel.

I allow others’ descriptions to form me.

I am trapped in this image of who I have to be,

who I want to be,

because that is what they want of me.

I want to get what I want, thus i follow the rules,

because the rules is how I want to be,

because that is how I have to be

to get what I want.

I too seldom write down what I feel and rather

what I want to feel.

I too seldom describe who I am and rather

who I want to be or that which others’ want me to be.

The truth is:

All that I want is to be ME

but I don’t know who that is…

Bookstores

I walk into the store. I breathe in. Heaven.

I swear that I shall never grow used to this sweet smell of adventure. The scent of dreams. The aroma of creativity. I love this smell. The smell of words tattooed  onto paper. The scent of new life.

Hour of scribbles and ideas and work all weaved into this. Hours of writing, reading, re-writing, re-reading. Hours of making sure that every word is honest. Hours of making sure that every word is fictional and true.  Hours of research. Hours of weaving words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into chapters, chapters into a story.

A brilliantly written book.

A bestseller. Glorified on display in every bookstore, bought by young and old, bookworms and non-readers, talked about in public, praised by reviews.

Then forgotten about.

Shoved to the side in hope to find another, or passed on, so that others may discover its beauty, so that next generations may be reminded of the old treasures of time.

They end up here. Piles of them stacked all around. Rows of shelves packed with them. Pages and pages and pages. Ideas and dreams and creativity stored up. Hoping, waiting to be found by bookworms, readers, people like me.

People who enjoy finding the lost, people who love the old and the new alike. Collectors of forgotten treasures. People with a love for traveling without moving their feet and dreaming with their eyes open.

I love this scent. The scent of books. The scent of life on paper.

Cycles

When will this cycle end?

The cycle of waking and eating and surviving and sleeping?

Even when we are succeeding and thriving it is all a vain effort to give meaning to the meaningless.

What is the meaning of this?

All that is left to do is fill our time with all that we can find. We smoke and swallow until we choke on the illusion of what freedom is.

All the while starting a new cycle- one ending in despair.

When will this cycle end?

Life

What if life is a mystery?

One for us to solve?

You and me.

Yes, we could go searching in crowded places filled with intoxicated teenagers or we could  go looking in the comfort of a lover’s arms or we could look in dark places where troubles lurk, or we could ask false faces with pretentious smiles and convincing lies.Or we could grow weary and look for rest in self harm or death’s charm…

But honey, what if life is merely a in between, a pass over from here into eternity.

The point of this blog.

Why do we write? To calm our nerves? To impress others when they read our work? To exprese our anger and fear and love and joy? The truth is, everyone has their own reasons, I have mine, you have yours… I think the reason that I wanted to start this blog the most is because I don’t want my words to be trapped on paper anymore, sure they are safer there, lurking in the shadows where they cannot be judged, yet here, I believe they can inspire people… and that means so much more.