Literary escapades

The smell of fire is here There's nowhere to hide or pretend it doesn't exist Dozens of flames are dancing around the globe Seemingly remote and lacking immediate significance to those at a distance The ones in the middle of the inferno scream and fight, crying out for help in despair Faces pressed against the glass of indifference Eyes awash with pain of loss Quivering lips Clutching fingers Words can be heard If only we listened weren't sickly used to ignoring the screams, muffle disturbing sound, close eyes and minds to nightmares that came to stay All in the insane hope of avoiding similar fate The ground shudders in pain absorbing streaming tears and blood every day hour Choking helplessness prompts the thought: Are we destined to the final realization: 'All hope abandon, ye who enter here...'

When exquisite beauty enters your life it shatters everything around.  You find yourself in front of it mesmerized and lost. The world suddenly falls into shadows. Frozen in your footsteps you search for answers in the strange perfection that came to be from all the improbable lines merging. It only exists for a brief moment  but is branded on your memory long after it's gone. Deliciously bewitching, it clouds the reasoning and pushes aside seemingly irrelevant, taking all the space in your heart and soul.  You fall into a fantasy that feeds and eats at you, splashing fireworks and dragging through the strongest current of emotions you'll ever experience. With stars falling all around, your eyes are fixed on the sky even if you can't move anymore, or wish, or stay. The least of all you'd want to walk away. Beauty is a powerful addiction that follows you around reminding of itself in every stroke, sound or shadow. Nothing is ever going to be the

Some writings are carefully crafted work of art. Others are raw emotional splashes on a canvas, seemingly devoid of purpose or logic. They blind and disturb by its outright force poured over whatever medium is used. Some appeal to our intellect and others to the deep recesses of hidden inner self, buried underneath all the inhibitions of social expectations, waiting to see the day of light, breathe air and live, if only for a passing moment. As if somebody has suddenly started playing an elaborate music piece on a violin with the nerves instead of strings. Invisible echoes coming from within, respond to the sound, trying to move in unison. And failing, miserably, longing to keep up, fascinated with the mere thought of it. Images, haunting in their exuberant elegance, painted in smallest details when words are felt all the way through, playfully innocent and all the way stirring sleeping monsters deep down, ruffling imaginary feathers and not giving any answers to the questio

I am floating on the shiny, cool surface letting go of myself, memories, dreams, life itself. The warm touch of the sun above and the languid water below are comforting and don't expect my response. I don't think I have anything in me left to give. I am empty and hollow like space. Being a part of things but not the thing itself is a new concept. It doesn't stir any emotions, it seems so distant but clear and logical. Everything is falling into place and illusive balance finally makes its presence known. It matters so little when all the energy is drawn out and the rest of the being feels embalmed and protected from all the chaos and upheavals and too far away to grasp or care. The soft breeze is lighter than a feather, lukewarm water with all the reflections of days gone by and fading into oblivion, muffled sounds of splashing waves, and occasional birds above, sliding between fingers lazy current, and me being and not being myself anymore. Like a melting ice-cream on