Photography is a delicate art. Writing is a delicate art. Painting is a delicate art. Drawing is a delicate art. Cooking is a delicate art. Yoga is a delicate art. Art is therefore and foremost, a set of delicacies combined into a single form, called art. To the hearts of many, the mess of art is a privilege that the majority tends to misunderstand cruelly. To many, art is none other than an act of ignorance, but approached in speech are all the artists on these grounds: allow not their rambling bring your artistic efforts to cease. Have faith; you are a miracle at the making. Do not allow the mere words and notations of the foolish have effect on your passion. Heed the speech here addressed to you, and live on with a grin to all oppositions; you are an artists. You will succeed and thrive, regardless their complaints.

18/03/2015 – 25/03/2015

I am not faded eye shadow and illy-wiped mascara. I am not tearful kohl and broken-winged eye liner. I am not cheap blusher and heavily applied concealer. I am not their sketch paper, patted with their dashing rainbows of color, later creating light masks. I am not the mannequin in front of thousand-dollar designer display windows, posed to sheer perfection. I am not their dress, tightly fit, uncomfortably cradled unto unnatural waists and curves. I am not the wig, unblemished and untouched, worn on their stages and platforms. I am a face, an identity, a person, a human being; I am not a doll, a plaything, an item, a product. I am a face, a fingerprint, an influence, an individual; I am not a toy, a figure of wax, a chunk of modeled plastic, a suitcase carried from door to door. I am a face. I am not to be sold for currency, or anything else, for the matter.

18/03/2015

What Is Damage?

There seems to be a questioning matter and scratching at my mind for my attention; that matter is damaged people, as of myself. Damaged people, it seems, are the most dangerous people to walk with us on the crust of this planet. They infect this planet with all the destruction their hearts hold, and that makes them utterly dangerous. People might ponder on why I call them dangerous; most people might be under the impression that damaged people are vulnerable, pathetic, weak, yet their expectations are fashionably incorrect and untrue. The reason is very simple: damaged people are dangerous because they believe that regardless of how damaged and diminished life might make them, they survived and are still surviving. Damaged people know for a fact that they will always survive anything and everything, because they have tasted the bitter hand of sorrow and agony; they know that they will be alive through anything, nevertheless. Damaged people are dangerous and always will be, because they have immense amounts of control over their personal survival mechanisms. Damaged people, contrary and adversed to popular belief, are actually of mighty and tenacious grips to endurance and survival of the countless predators amongst them. Damaged people are possibly the strongest hell-bound humans alive, yet receive no recognition whatsoever, only looks of pity and disgust. Such an afflicted reality we must also learn to accept, above all.

15/03/2015

I have dreams that often 

are not taken seriously; 

dreams that people shrug off. 

I have dreams of telling people 

of the beauties and wonders of the 

world. I have dreams of 

showing the true capacity of human 

emotion. I have dreams of illustration, 

of loyalty, of galore, of rhyme and rhythm, 

be it with or not with them. 

I have dreams that people often 

shrug off, but only those with the sight and 

vision will understand my dreams. 

– my dreams are not fantasies; 

I am a realist.

16/03/2015

Bakeries Are Home.

There's a goodness in bakeries that I can't quiet describe. The smell reminds me of my long past childhood, and going into a bakery brings back so much to my mind. Bakeries are beautiful. To me, they’re a place of welcoming warmth and dedication. Bakeries are loyal businesses that serve the people for the best to come. Bakeries are not money-oriented; they give out love and satisfaction. Bakeries are a mental connection family to me. So many memories. Breads of various shapes, sizes, tastes. Deserts, cakes, biscuits. Festivities and funerals all depend on the good hearted baker’s hands; he provides life to all who ask for it. There is a goodness in bakeries that I can’t quiet describe, but all I can say is that it feels good to be home.

12/03/2015 – 13/03/2015

The Death Of Butterflies Is Hopeful.

The butterflies faded into blue on my skin. It’s been over a year now, and I’ve kept up the black marker butterfly trick as a habit. I can’t kill innocent butterflies.

The butterflies faded into blue. They’re nearly disappearing, and maybe that’s a good sign; it’s a possible sign of belated recovery. Recovery is good, belated or not.

The butterflies faded into blue. Maybe that’s how they lay eggs and bring on caterpillars. Funny how life is blue.

The butterflies faded into blue. It’s never too late to keep them immortal. But then again, some habits are simply meant to die out. Let them.

11/03/2015 – 13/03/2015

Challenge

Dip me in gasoline and set me ablaze, bet me on a game of Russian Roulette and make me lose, spray my eyes with toxic fertilizers, shoot my head with a gun barrel empty or full, kill me with your words and your violence, but I’ll only be announced “passed” on official records, not truly; my soul will always live on in the hearts of those with spirits indestructible as mine. I am recognized, and I say this not out of arrogance, but out of self-appreciation and respect. I will not allow the memory of me to die with my body; I will live on and on for decades and centuries to come, because I might be damaged, but damage is a critical element to make one unforgettable. I will be a memory people look up to someday, and I do not await your approval or permission any longer. I am a free spirit; I won’t allow myself imprisonment. I am free.

22/12/2014 – 11/03/2015

--Untitled--

Dew's the envelope of newly sprung leaves and the sky's a pathway to a heaven intertwined with fallacies and denial. It's a long ride with the warmth of the summer sun in the morning on one side, and the chill of the shivering winter late at night with a white luminous moon on the other side. It matters not the destination, but the beauties in which we please our sights with on this sempiternal road. There are daises and lilies rising below our tires, and through we step on them, the vines grow out to protect them and show them mercy. Beyond the windows the sky is light and dark, and we are in the midsection of the transition; we are the change, we are the hope, we are the future which lives inside our marrows, unplanned. The winds blow on either side on our faces as we drive on midst the fog, and we smile endlessly as we continue being enveloped in the many wonders this world offers us. We smile as we get closer to the end of the cracked yellow brick road. We smile as we make our way to being content, because somehow, even though we’re still on the road, we’ve already reached our destination. 

30/12/2014 – 11/03/2015

Adventurous To The Marrow Is The Mask Of Cowardice

Velvet drops of blood on the white carpeted floors, splattered like a painting gone horribly wrong and attempted to being demolished for a reason unknown to its ignorant audience. Velvet drops of blood on the white painted walls, blotted like a shrink’s twisted tests to figure out the state of mind of an absent minded patient. Velvet drops of blood on the white stoned roof dripping onto the scar wrapped around my neck and tucked into the collar of my snug navvy sweater. Velvet drops of blood giving color to the unturned stones of the setting, one I am unfamiliar with; a place with yanked chandeliers and broken wooden flooring, apparently of a 60 year old yew tree from glance of an eye of expertise. Velvet drops of blood on every inch go this indecent castle plated with forgotten fortunes of gold and memories. It’s a slaughterhouse, and that thought is affirmed as I walk further to find wallpapered hallways and checked floors guiding me through into several rooms, the first being of a child, a girl. Baby pink duvets and lace curtains make up the main design go the space. Aside from the faded pink, there are broken dolls, a broken mirror, carpets torn by claws of what seems to be a wolf’s; the blood is everywhere, dry and of revolting stench. Petrified, I considered the option of looking away and forgetting of the very existence of this house, but something pulled me into staying: a force I never understood to this day. The next room was of simple tapestry and a silk covered king size bed. The master bedroom. It smelled of dead rats and a week old’s rotten meal, aside from the smell of blood of course. This is a site of genocide, it seems, but how was this not reported before? I walk deeper into the room, approaching the balcony. The glass had layers of dust, which I wiped off with the hem of my sleeve. Beyond the barrier, I saw light, radiant and intense, and in that light was a family of transparent physiques, but they had no heads, only bloody chopped necks. They’re happy, the married couple embracing, the children playing “Hide and Seek” blindly, and the nanny caring for the infant crawling on the yellow grass. They’re happy, but how? My skin shivers. A mass suicide? But why? I shut the curtain and fumble to the stairs, almost tripped as I haste towards the exit doors. I push the double hinged doors, only to  find the horse lying hoarse lying corpse of a man in a well-fitted suit of black, butcher’s knife in hand, throat slit and still soaking wet. Fresh blood. This is recent. I cross over it and rush off to the pavement in my minivan. Lesson learnt. 

30/11/2014 – 10/03/2015

I wake up with clear eyes. No blurs at all.

Maybe I wake up every morning not remembering my dreams any longer simply because I have no dreams anymore. I used to dream of your love, but now, I'm just empty. There's nothing inside me anymore; no wanting, no craving, not an ounce of desire. Maybe my dreams are now nothings floating in my mind as I put my body to rest, while my mind needs no rest anymore; it feels nothing at all.

05/03/2015

maybe you're the brave lion heart, not me

May life never do us part,

And if it does,

May the Sun be your guide,

And the Moon be your hope,

And the stars be your smile,

And your heart be your pride,

Because it has been so strong

To have enough dash

To love me. 

05/03/2015