The Man with a Heart Made Out of Paper

Ripped through like leaves and trees in the eye of the storm, there is very little to sustain it. You draw it nicely and make it colourful with strong shades of red, you can even feel it pumping. But one blow cannot help you sustain it. What is with mankind and their need to visualise the source of emotions? Do we need to see what we feel, or just see what we feel at first? You hear the paper rustling, trying to make sense of what you could realistically draw on paper, of what you could write to make you believe what exists and what is product of fantasy. Yet, the pages flickered through will not tell you what to see and they might never summarise what you felt on that day, on that moment. If music played right now, could you wish it was on paper to bless those who listened to it? Would musicians hang their instruments to pick up the pens and pencils on the floor? My desire is not written with the alphabet inherited from father to son, nor it is something you draw or see on the walls of a gutted city. Blessing came with the word and flew over the city to warm you all with its sounds, its accentuation, its intonation; to represent that rhythm life kept close to her at all times. Tu-tum...tu-tum...is that your heart beating for one lifetime only or is that just a series of characters to be seen forever?

The Man whose Mind is Always Elsewhere

Focus on what you can see ahead - do you actually focus or vaguely stare in-between where nothing lays or lies? I still do not know for my mind is unsure when listening becomes routine and hearing creeps in as a side effect. Yet, I am sure it all comes down to those words I sense coming through my ears like constant reminder of who and where I am. Why should I focus? Are you the world for me to visit and cherish? I doubt it is, and I even doubt further what my mind is able to conquer where everything is fragmented, untold, forgotten. The world on its own is too much for me; my world will live longer through years and centuries across the forests and the lands I built for me only. Bring up these walls of mine as I will dare protect my thoughts to the very end, and welcome the brothers and sisters willing to lose themselves where my mind is lost from day to day. And elsewhere I think my happiness still breathes air as heavy as gold - but do I really care when my mind is always elsewher

The Man Who Is Urged to Ask

When you ask yourself so many questions, there is no harder force than man's curiosity to explain and wonder what lies behind every look and behind every word you may have said or even thought. I think we all expect everything to be black and white under the bright sun shining over this small planet; we are indeed the world who believes in night and day, dark and light, good and evil. But who ever thinks about the terminator, that thin, fictive line distinguishing the night from the day and the day from the night? We see the sun rise, we cross it, we see the sun go to sleep, and we cross it again without even thinking. And what about the horizon? The one you chased as a child, trying to reach it before it slipped further away over the hills and over the sea on a never-ending circle. Us, we pass the grey forms without staring at them and without asking them who or what they are. For they do not exist. And because of this we should not ask ourselves why our 'ghosts' do not go to sleep for they have already gone asleep and we simply feel fictive lines blurring the shape of things.