Sunday, 5 August 2012
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
Take your Moment
There's an old saying- 'Dance like no one is watching,' but for now I say, forget that! Dance like EVERYONE is watching! Take your fucking Moment!
There's dozens and dozens of documentaries on individuals who took their Moment every time it was handed to them, and every Moment they took people remembered, now we're still talking about those Moments years after they passed away. Maybe we don't like to admit it, because it makes us seem like we have an ego, but Fire is the Desire to be Remembered! Take your Moment people, because at that Moment you are the one and only person everyone is watching!
There's dozens and dozens of documentaries on individuals who took their Moment every time it was handed to them, and every Moment they took people remembered, now we're still talking about those Moments years after they passed away. Maybe we don't like to admit it, because it makes us seem like we have an ego, but Fire is the Desire to be Remembered! Take your Moment people, because at that Moment you are the one and only person everyone is watching!
Monday, 9 January 2012
Flashes of poetry
No matter how stubborn, solemn, occupied or busy, every man wishes for the distraction of a beautiful woman.
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
Searching for something real
I’m searching for something Real.
The Real Moments that plant seeds of knowledge that grow and blossom into the wisdom we use to inspire as we grow old.
Real Moments, salted with the bitter tears that are shed over the realisation of helplessness, and the death of dreams, but then reincarnated as strength born from struggle.
I’m searching for Real People, unable to speak unless it’s the truth, punctuating lies with silence but unable to be silent with themselves.
Real Individuals who work hard when faced with the job of sacrifice, not to achieve success but to swim in the sea of fulfillment.
Real People who only hide their emotions when contemplating the pain they may cause. Unafraid of making enemies, as they understand that to be true to oneself enemies must be as accepted and welcomed as friends.
I’m searching for the Real Colour of things in a world painted, re-painted and glossed over in the fake tones of material-commercial-capitalism.
I’m searching for someone… someone Real enough to possess my Soul, someone to die for… someone who forces me to reveal my Shames and question my Worth.
I’m searching…
The Real Moments that plant seeds of knowledge that grow and blossom into the wisdom we use to inspire as we grow old.
Real Moments, salted with the bitter tears that are shed over the realisation of helplessness, and the death of dreams, but then reincarnated as strength born from struggle.
I’m searching for Real People, unable to speak unless it’s the truth, punctuating lies with silence but unable to be silent with themselves.
Real Individuals who work hard when faced with the job of sacrifice, not to achieve success but to swim in the sea of fulfillment.
Real People who only hide their emotions when contemplating the pain they may cause. Unafraid of making enemies, as they understand that to be true to oneself enemies must be as accepted and welcomed as friends.
I’m searching for the Real Colour of things in a world painted, re-painted and glossed over in the fake tones of material-commercial-capitalism.
I’m searching for someone… someone Real enough to possess my Soul, someone to die for… someone who forces me to reveal my Shames and question my Worth.
I’m searching…
Flashes of poetry
Anyone who’s ever fallen deeply into a love that resulted in the breaking and shattering of their heart knows that certainty is only a myth created to safe guard ourselves against the misery of disappointment.
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
There's something about London
There’s something about London… it’s filled with too many bricks, too much concrete and glass, too much steel and too many ambitions. A city pregnant with progress, constantly giving birth to new structures that compete for the space reserved for the sky.
There’s something about London, it’s the place businesses come to die. They move in and thrive for a few months before succumbing to the harsh climates and disappearing over night, leaving behind the remains of what it use to be, its outer shell now displaying the birth banner of the new business that shall take over its vacant body and try its hand at surviving.
There’s something about London and the way it never sleeps. Cars never tire from running, lights are not allowed to dimly rest, sounds can never be quiet and when one job finishes another starts. Yet the city is incomplete: Roads are laid and re-laid, as if the definition of ‘flat’ changes every month. Lines shut down every weekend but never heal from whatever sickness seems to be plaguing them. And every year the city expands outwards, like a greedy child wanting more space to play in, stepping on flowers, digging holes in which to bury stuff, and then becoming bored with the mess it has made and leaving it behind to find newer ground to leave its destructive mark on.
There’s something about this city and how it defines the people that live in it: ‘Londoners.’ We’ve stopped looking up. We’ve forgotten that the real stars live in the sky and shine for us every night regardless of whether we stroke their egos with our attention or not. We’ve forgotten where dreams come from and instead wonder at the stars the media shines in our faces twenty-four hours a day, and look to them for answers to our destiny.
There’s something about Londoners, clichés wrapped up in a contradiction. They're always waiting for someone who never seems to arrive, or always in a hurry to meet someone they forgot was waiting. Full of empty gestures to have reunions they never set dates for, promises to call numbers their fingers no longer know how to dial. Kings and Queens of ‘we should get together’, ‘let me know when you’re free’, ‘I’ll call you sometime.’ Too busy with the concept of being busy to realise they don’t fit its definition; in a hurry to go nowhere.
Riding like zombies on tubes, shutting down like robots, we refuse to engage our peripheral vision. No longer living in houses but surviving in rooms. Running in a race in which the finish line is a myth, too busy looking ahead to enjoy the present, too busy thinking about the future to remember how good it felt to laugh in the past.
There’s something about all cities, scattered like fallen planets trying to reclaim the sky. But I know London I’ve lived in its recesses for what feels like a lifetime. I know its smell, I’ve seen it grow, I know how it breathes and I’ve seen how people are absorbed into its consciousness and take on its reality. There’s something about London and the people that live in it… there’s something missing.
-E-
There’s something about London, it’s the place businesses come to die. They move in and thrive for a few months before succumbing to the harsh climates and disappearing over night, leaving behind the remains of what it use to be, its outer shell now displaying the birth banner of the new business that shall take over its vacant body and try its hand at surviving.
There’s something about London and the way it never sleeps. Cars never tire from running, lights are not allowed to dimly rest, sounds can never be quiet and when one job finishes another starts. Yet the city is incomplete: Roads are laid and re-laid, as if the definition of ‘flat’ changes every month. Lines shut down every weekend but never heal from whatever sickness seems to be plaguing them. And every year the city expands outwards, like a greedy child wanting more space to play in, stepping on flowers, digging holes in which to bury stuff, and then becoming bored with the mess it has made and leaving it behind to find newer ground to leave its destructive mark on.
There’s something about this city and how it defines the people that live in it: ‘Londoners.’ We’ve stopped looking up. We’ve forgotten that the real stars live in the sky and shine for us every night regardless of whether we stroke their egos with our attention or not. We’ve forgotten where dreams come from and instead wonder at the stars the media shines in our faces twenty-four hours a day, and look to them for answers to our destiny.
There’s something about Londoners, clichés wrapped up in a contradiction. They're always waiting for someone who never seems to arrive, or always in a hurry to meet someone they forgot was waiting. Full of empty gestures to have reunions they never set dates for, promises to call numbers their fingers no longer know how to dial. Kings and Queens of ‘we should get together’, ‘let me know when you’re free’, ‘I’ll call you sometime.’ Too busy with the concept of being busy to realise they don’t fit its definition; in a hurry to go nowhere.
Riding like zombies on tubes, shutting down like robots, we refuse to engage our peripheral vision. No longer living in houses but surviving in rooms. Running in a race in which the finish line is a myth, too busy looking ahead to enjoy the present, too busy thinking about the future to remember how good it felt to laugh in the past.
There’s something about all cities, scattered like fallen planets trying to reclaim the sky. But I know London I’ve lived in its recesses for what feels like a lifetime. I know its smell, I’ve seen it grow, I know how it breathes and I’ve seen how people are absorbed into its consciousness and take on its reality. There’s something about London and the people that live in it… there’s something missing.
-E-
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
One day Destiny followed me home
When I was 14 years old Destiny followed me home from the opticians one day, took advance of my nativity, kissed my imagination with her creative tongue and helped me see that I was meant to be a writer.
Lost in puberty the kiss aroused an urge in me that sprang forth from my very being, and in a desperate need to satisfy this new foreign impulse I picked up a pen for what felt like the very first time, opened the hidden door in my imagination, poured out my soul on the page and found my passion in words.
I was too young to understand what had happened. Destiny had taken my virgin mind and touched it in a way Convention never could, and then she left… left me alone on my bed filled with the messy stained pages of my scribbled emotions.
Seemingly over just as it had started, she left taking her delicate kiss with her, but her scent lingered like a butterfly in the air, and inspiring visions of her drifted through my every moment.
Destiny haunted me everywhere I went constantly painting the world around me in new shades of poetry, forcing me to spill ink in spontaneous unplanned busts of metaphor inspired prose, and bringing out of me untamed written expressions of my soul.
It wasn’t till four years later that I understood what had happened that day. That I realised the gift Destiny had given me, the passion and love she had blessed upon me and the door in my soul she had opened with her kiss.
When I was 14 years old Destiny followed me home from the opticians one day, took advance of my nativity, kissed my imagination with her creative tongue and helped me see that I was meant to be a writer.
~E~
Lost in puberty the kiss aroused an urge in me that sprang forth from my very being, and in a desperate need to satisfy this new foreign impulse I picked up a pen for what felt like the very first time, opened the hidden door in my imagination, poured out my soul on the page and found my passion in words.
I was too young to understand what had happened. Destiny had taken my virgin mind and touched it in a way Convention never could, and then she left… left me alone on my bed filled with the messy stained pages of my scribbled emotions.
Seemingly over just as it had started, she left taking her delicate kiss with her, but her scent lingered like a butterfly in the air, and inspiring visions of her drifted through my every moment.
Destiny haunted me everywhere I went constantly painting the world around me in new shades of poetry, forcing me to spill ink in spontaneous unplanned busts of metaphor inspired prose, and bringing out of me untamed written expressions of my soul.
It wasn’t till four years later that I understood what had happened that day. That I realised the gift Destiny had given me, the passion and love she had blessed upon me and the door in my soul she had opened with her kiss.
When I was 14 years old Destiny followed me home from the opticians one day, took advance of my nativity, kissed my imagination with her creative tongue and helped me see that I was meant to be a writer.
~E~
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