I just pulled out excerpts of feelings turned into words over the years... which in a very fragmented way, express bits of a person...



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......and for a moment there is pure silence.
Silence... where did all the silence go?
ode to a moment of silence
a moment of rest from the Great Human.
If you listen hard enough
you can hear the electricity
seirging through the cables above.
Short breathes of contaminated air
fills me with a familiar sensation
of incompleteness.


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The stars so brightly hand like crystals in an erray of multicoloured darkness
A darkness that is sometimes light
So light that the crystals dissapear to the naked eye
And I lay like a spek of dust. In a room the size of eternity.
I enjoy the millionth of a second my life is worth-
In a universe without time.
I the blink of an eye I have a thousand thoughts-
Nothing is the only thing that keeps me from floating into another world.... far far away.
As I write,

meaningless everythings torment my consciousness.

I hope to fulfill this phantasy called life-
where nothing is really that important,
yet means everything to me.


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What is art?
Is it a feeling?
Maybe we live art until we stop feeling.
Feel yourself.
I can draw a house...
but what does it mean?
I can paint a beach...
but how does it 'feel'?
I am not happy to put pictures on paper (anymore)
It's not that I think I can't do it
It's because I know I'll feel just as empty as before.
I'm craving a rush of free air
I'm craving a sight of beauty.
Inspiration is just a word-
jsut like everything else-
words are nothing without feeling-without understanding.
Why do I write page after page?
We have a pattern-
and I write on blank pages-
one after the other...
An acceptable thing to do.


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Cara