Art is a voice. A powerful, beautiful voice in which our souls can soar in perfect melodic expression. Just as the universe is chaos orchestrated into a perfect tune of balance, we can use Art to transform darkness into beauty. Perhaps Art; in all its forms; is the only hope we have left. 

Art can be found in everything. Our planet itself is an artistic creation so beautiful.. Nature, the stars, our anatomy and the miracle of producing life. It is through Art that the beauty of mankind is realized. Music, paintings, sculptures and writing.. all bear testimony to the great things we are capable of as human beings. Art is our light in such a world as this. I find inspiration in those that are inspired; despite how dark and sad this world truly is. And in the heart of the poet that still loves ..even though it is broken. 

Like the rays of the sun, Art and words can reach out and touch the masses. And surely it is through Art that we can breathe love into this world? Everywhere I turn people are suffering… Withering long before they are due to die. Yes our bodies are dying everyday.. but each of us, in our own way, are dying internally in some way with every breath. The innocence of childhood snatched away from us by a world that can be immensely cruel. Is it not through art that our purest inner soul can be true to itself? What society weighs down with chains; breathes freely in art, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t it?

There is truth in art. Expression unmasked and fearless. In a world of media induced lies and the enslavement of our minds, Art is a channel for the beauty in our hearts. I do not believe in fighting violence with violence, so how do you change the world? Through love? Through inspiration and beauty? Am I mad to believe it is possible? 

We all have a heart.. we all know what is right.. we all have a choice… and these hands are capable of creating immense beauty…

Sometimes, you think you know what you can give someone, you think that your words will have this healing power, that you will be able to give them what they've searched for years. You can list all the way you'd touch them, caress them, savour them in a hurried breath.

Her mind wanders around, always. Whenever she watches a movie or read book, the character come alive in her head and they live forever after. Whenever she sees a photograph of a beautiful place somewhere on this earth or not, she lives there for a substantial amount of time in her mind. Sometimes there places are energetic, filled with interesting people from all walks of life and full of adventures. She lived in London, Tokyo, New York City even, and Amsterdam. Sometimes, however, they are peaceful, quite, tranquil, like Rome's St Peter square at night, or the lake of Geneva in early dawn. The top of the Alps, a small island in the Atlantic. She moves from one place to another in just a split second, with a look at a photograph. I wonder where she lives these days. Her body seated in the park under a tree, her mind might be living in a tiny, dirty apartment somewhere in Moscow with all the characters from Carroll's "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland". I would love to come over for dinner sometimes.

At first your breath on my neck feels foreign, and in half sleep i am threatened. It takes a second to remember to not be afraid. I pull your arm tighter around my waist and drift off. And i am not afraid.

I have always been a scribble ever since I could remember. I stopped somewhere in between being a kid, a rebelling teen, a wife, a mother and a divorcee. Everything,  from truth to lust, from lust to love, from love to hate is when I start to take scribbling more serious. Fiction and non-fiction. What I'm feeling and what I wish to feel. Through words, I'm trying to understand life in so many different perspectives and angles.
Call me hopeless romantic, but feelings are the most difficult theme for me to write about. It has always been. Until one day I fell. deeply. deeply in love with a perfect stranger. The shortest love story yet the most intense feeling I've ever experienced. I was terrified at first, too scared to expose my own feelings, but my bravery won. I dared myself to write instead of just scribbling and our short love story was the spunk to put my every feelings into word. I let myself streaming down into this river of words, pages after pages of my journal. There's no lies, pages of honesty, sincerity, integrity, candor and  simplicity of a heart and mind. The words never stop itself from filling every new empty pages, even after the love he once had for me fade as if I am just an idea to him, a faded idea, and we're back to strangers. But the love that gave me courage to write remains.
The words never stop, I never stop, ideas never stop because everything in live is truly inspiring.
And then one day, I lost the journal to my clumsiness. That is when I lost the ability to write, as if I lost a part of me. I shall stop and put down my pen because now, me and words, we become stranger.

Maybe I'm just being too emotional, sentimental, or dramatic. But losing my journal hits me hard. Its like I'm losing a part of me. Those pages after pages of nonsense is my past, my memories, words after words made me of who I am today.
Oh, how I love to re-read what has been wrote just to keep myself on track every time the tides of oblivion strikes.
This is tragic ....

I don’t know how to make this sound beautiful, how to write about regrets in a way that still holds some sort of elegance in the words. But regret is not a beautiful thing. If regret was a color, it would be black ... the deepest onyx. So deep that you drown in it. The current pulls you under, and you’re searching for the grasp of an ally to save you. But none come. And as the inky death overwhelms you, you begin to question your choice of friends.