Literary escapades

Writing is like breathing Like running on a slippery ice crisp winter morning With northern wind burning your lips And clouds moving fast across the sky It's like a life, with ups and downs, losses and gains Unbridled happiness and abysmal despair  Or even bigger because it includes all the 'what if's in the world And it's forever because time isn't an object It only matures with it like a good wine With pulse of hunger for knowledge and passion  It grows only stronger threatening to outlive you Even when it seems so far from happening It grows under your skin and may lay dormant for years To only blossom one of the springs When it can wait no more     

Writing keeps hunting me down. At home, on the go, in my sleep. It pulls my sleeve, it wakes me up in the middle of the night, half asleep, half aware. It pushes me around like a dilligent boss that won't stop until the work is done. I am looking for an excuse why not and can't find any.  I've been in hibernation for too long. The powerful wave is coming and sweeping everything on it's way. I'm holding on to my notepad (or should I say Ipad?) as a lifebuoy to help me swim to safety, sanity, serenity... And I am spinning and spinning in this roaring water, knocking on the stones along the way, going down with the glassy wall on a waterfall ride, resurfacing just to breathe and trying to keep my head above as much as it's possible.  Gripping cold, insane speed, exhilaration it brings, slamming into your face wind, the heart almost out of beat ...  And then it's slowing down, slower, slower. The work is done and I am free. For a little while. Good night

Sometimes I get tired of formulating my thoughts, to others and to myself. Words are crowding in my head, talking louder and louder, until the noise becomes excruciating. That's when I start dreaming of the oblivion, just going with a flow, without so much as considering what my next step would be. Not knowing - what a liberating concept. Moving on, taking things in as they are. I'd become an observer of life instead of running it's marathon.  Get off the lane, sit on the grass and watch days go by until it doesn't thrill you anymore. I am a realist and know it wouldn't last. But at this very moment it feels like a bliss. Slowing down to a complete stop, listening to the silence, operating on a completely different dimensional level. Even breathing slower would be quite an adventure. Seeing life stroll by, detached, relaxed, devoid of all worries.  I might notice things that are usually a blur. I might need time to process them, write or just stare. What would t

Some days aren't worth waking up. This was unfortunately one of them. Soaked from the pouring down rain she managed to squeeze into a crowded morning train just to hear the announcement that this particular and fastest service is cancelled and they all need to change to another, local. People were rushing out to get on even smaller train that would be stopping at every stop possible before arriving at the city center. 'Not my day', - she said to herself indifferently stating the fact. There were no surprises at what was happening. Just another rainy, sunny, snowy etc. day in a big city with few promises of reliable transport.  Another day of been late for work, another reason to apologize to the already irritable boss for the faults of not her own. Despite all the best efforts reality has chosen to test her patience one more time.  Smashed inside the coach, barely able to stand, balancing on the shaky floors of carving train she dreamt of warmer, sunnier and friendlier