Tag: writing

moami:

if you find bones in the forest, sit a bit and listen. they are old and have some good stories to tell. maybe they’ll teach you a spell or two, or explain where the water on our planet came from.

if you find bones by the ocean, run. don’t look back. run, faster, faster. the sea may love you but there are nights where she knows neither mercy nor science, and the bones warn you only once.

I accidentally deleted my own post so I hereby reblog it back to my blog. Proceed. Nothing to see here, especially not the bones that appeared in my flat corridor after the deletion and now have begun growing larger.

When they called Latin a dead language, it was possibly the single most influential mistake ever made in the history of translation. Because – dead? Oh no.

Those that speak it, those few in today’s fast and worried times that still listen to the old words, that can decipher sentences and myths, they know. They felt something dark and old seep into their bones.

Not dead. A beginner’s mistake, really. And isn’t undead, as it should have been called if everyone had done their job properly, just another word for immortal – no matter if it refers to paper or flesh?

Effort won’t betray you – and neither will the shapeless beasts hiding in the periphery of your vision that swims in shadows during dusk or dawn, because they’re only here to eat what dares come close enough to harm you.

Bake bread, brew some tea, borrow kindness that you return, and bring some sweets to an old tree where ancestors of others rest. it knows when you are coming. it does not know when you will leave. but it knows, as certain as water will rise up its veins and sun will warm its crown, that you will keep going.

But until the sun burns us to dust
We dive into oceans of old
We swim under skies of centuries
Until our home galaxy becomes maelstrom and maker
We light candles and watch fireflies dance
We breathe another day. And burn on

we are still here

It’s very likely that my art will never change anyone.

My writing may never be published. My poems may never be read. My songs may never be sung, my lyrics never hummed on lips other than my own.

Maybe everything I’ll ever create will be forgotten and useless as soon as I’ve birthed it. Because it’s bad or it’s the wrong time or it’s unloved or a million other reasons.

But still, I must. Still, I have to make art. It could be the worst, the most terrible piece of art that the world has ever seen, but I have to. Just like breathing. Some art has to be made so you can consume it and make it part of yourself, and other art has to be made so you can finally rip a part of yourself out.