Literary escapades

I miss the sound of a piano. Old and not finally tuned. The sound is coming from the close distance, in an empty half-dark room, the imperfection of a familiar melody. The feeling of music being right there in front of you, running though you, mesmerizing, enchanting, carrying away from what's called real, to stay in this corner of the world and dream, feel, remember, relive something bright, clear like a sky on the crisp winter morning when anything is still possible.

What do you do with the anger that eats at you?  When it doesn't burn out or go away completely, festering inside, poisoning your mind, breeding dark thoughts. There's no release from the rotting fumes surrounding every image, hiding the original, clouding the judgement, sipping through every pore and still managing to remain intact, surviving in deep corners of the soul to be raised at the provocation spreading wings ever stronger with every time it happens. It twists the frame draining out any perspective, control, or self-possession holding you a hostage trapped in a double cage of inner and outer prisons combined where freedom seems so illusive 

When razor-sharp, double-edged words honestly tear at the fabric of the reality how to protect yourself from inflicted hurt and still  be able to speak out regardless of the fact of who and how many are willing to listen, agree, understand or not. How to withstand the backlash of anger from those who find ideas challenging the imaginary safety of their world so threatening that they are ready to preserve it at all costs, defying the reality check and loosing sanity in the process by holding on to the notion of being secure just by strapping themselves to the illogically outdated and outright blind trust of the past experiences twisted in the deceptive light of nostalgia. Those who don't dear to look at the Big picture for what it really is, untarnished by wishful thinking, existing despite all their hopes, fears, and denials will finally need to learn to face it, deal with it as it comes, in all of unexpected colors, and make it their own by being there to shape it up every singl

Silver grey sky is untouched by colors.  In the early hours of morning vaguely visible silhouettes are misleading.  Quiet is consuming the surroundings immersing them in a surrealistic flow of sounds and smells that'll all seize to exist with the first rays of sun obligingly vanishing into the air. Holding on to a delicate whisper murmuring in your ear you wish for the time to slow and let you breathe not burdened with anticipation or hope. It's a dream that only lives for a moment balancing on the edge of the night, twisting the frame into unfamiliar shapes readying itself for another day.