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 questions they pose.
Some would prefer their hearts sleep in cosy fantasy.
Others are daring to dive below the surface in search for unknown that may come their way.
It's all about the spectrum you can conceive or handle.
There's no right and wrong in truly seeing the world for what it is and placing yourself in the role you are born to play.