“To be creative means to be in love with life.
You can be creative only if you love life enough that you want to enhance its beauty,
you want to bring a little more music to it, a little more poetry to it, a little more dance to it.” ― Osho
Music
I am the boy who won’t let go
I live in my head and I don’t look like my photos
And I hate the sound of the world outside
‘Cause everybody coming here can’t wait to say goodbye
I followed your car to my childhood home
And I looked for the key hidden under the stone
And I still hear the sound in my father’s voice
When he lifts me up like I’m a little boy
And I saw horses from my window
They were watching all the cars go
And they don’t care that I am broken
Close my eyes and run beside them
‘Cause I’m already free
I’m already free
So don’t look for me here
‘Cause I run in my dreams
I am the girl who won’t let go
I live in my house and I don’t like my photos
And I hate the sound of the world outside
And I still haven’t found my place to hide
And I saw horses from my window
They were watching all the cars go
And they don’t care that I am broken
Close my eyes and run beside them
I saw horses from my window
They were watching all the cars go
And they don’t care that I am broken
Close my eyes and run beside them
Through the valleys and the pastures
And I know you’ll never find me
‘Cause I’m already free
I’m already free
So don’t look for me here
Don’t look for me here
‘Cause I run in my dream
In my dreams
Eskimo: “If I did not know about God and sin, would I go to hell?”
Priest: “No, not if you did not know.”
Eskimo: “Then why did you tell me?”
– Annie Dillard
Time, time, time
See what’s become of me
While I looked around for my possibilities
I was so hard to please
But look around
Leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter
Look around
Leaves are brown
There’s a patch of snow on the ground
Paul Simon ♫
Weekly Photo Challenge: Time
February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out.
Boris Pasternak ♫
Maverick Mist 