Det blåser på månen.

I wish I could write what I think; how I feel and reflect upon the world and circumstances that surrounds me, in a way I intend. But it seems I lost that ability a long time ago. In an age when I was still as young as my years. The time I've lived seem to have little effect on who I'd like to be yet it rules who I am. And what I am is lonely. I feel my thoughts, but I can't reach them. I want to make myself a part of the people around me, but no matter how hard I try to see how they think and feel, and how to play along with that, it will always be just what it is. A game, I don't know how to play. We're incomplete, and how could we ever be more. Thing is, I've always found people rather easy in their nature, but at the same time very hard to understand. We are so much alike, yet there's so many levels on how we can be different. But we have a tendency to view those differences by way of lack of communication, and by feeding our own projections of how we t

"A wise old owl sat on an oak. The more he saw the less he spoke. The less he spoke the more he heard. Why aren't we like that wise old bird?" ~ A wisdom quote found here:  [Link]

'Minds, like bodies, will often fall into a pimpled, ill-conditioned state from mere excess of comfort.' ~ Charles Dickens

She opened her eyes and looked around; the scene had changed, again. Now she was standing in a fast moving train, in a corridor of bunk-beds, with the sly rays of a setting sun finding their way through the left hand side windows and partly lighting up the walls and ceiling. Outside she saw a swiftly moving world; a blur of emerald trees and outstretched meadows, their mossy floors broken only by the occasional tele-posts, wired together over the lands like silver thread, stitching up the skies.      She turned towards the corridor. Her gaze drawn by a door close by that stood out among the rest, in the seemingly endless, otherwise monotonic space. She slid up to the door to inspect it closer, and as she approached she was struck by one obvious fact; this door was odd. Odd in a way that could compare even to the obscure events that'd taken place lately. Strange though things where, everything did at least seam to have some certain order to them. That's what she'd clung to

Min plats är i det uppenbara; att finnas till, att begrunda och formge Mitt liv har en ande; ett mål i sig självt - en vilja i det obskyra,  att syna sin egen existens Min längtan är mitt ankar i en närhet till en människa som vandrar i sina egna spår Min frihet är det varande som driver mig i min fortgång; den luft jag andas och spänsten i mina steg Allt jag har lägger jag hos dig i en framtid som ännu är öppen för ändring Du är en vision och jag min egen gud Allt jag vet är min egen bild av den värld jag skapar åt mig själv; Ett träsnitt skuret ur andras bark. En främlings milda ögon blåser storm i min spegelbild och ett ord kan få min gud att gå på knä Mitt inre åldras tiofalt linjerna i min hud Och dina händer stryker fortfarande slät sten Rista dess yta i väven på dina kläder, men spara en plats åt mig För min väg går genom det självklara och framtiden är allt jag har att ge Jag ritar mina tankar i askan av ett liv,  men min nutid