In no way do I claim to be a poet. Art was always just a way to bring my insides out, and my poems are nothing more but pieces of me. My inner artist that aches for a response asks that I share this blog with people, but my nature of a perfectionist demands that I don't. If you stumble upon this, I appreciate constructive criticism. Remember, though: perhaps you can't see beyond ruins to the building that once was, so you can comment on its architecture. Perhaps, you take a look inside. This is a communion, after all.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Plain thoughts...

So, pain seems to be the only way to clarity these days.
You have to fall, to break, to hurt, to cry, to have a flowing moment, where everything seems clear, simple and make perfect sense.
Clarity is such a distant state of mind.
You only know it, when it's gone. So,no one can ever appreciate it or ever acknowledge it. All we have is memories of that kind of moments of clarity.
Lately, I had few. It was like sunshine in the rain, like a spark in the dark, like another cliché simily I can't think of right now.
You see, when you hurt very much for a very long time, you crave for those moments of clarity and treasure them, as if they were to salvage you from pain.
But they don't.

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