Dear Reader, After some excessive debate I believe that it would not be fair to dally in the creative works of others without sharing my own. Today, I'd like to share with you one of my most favourite works that although took quite a bit of time, believe it to capture the essence of what it means to be a human in today's world: Common, forgotten and oh so fragile. This poem was drawn from the depths of my mortal heart and I sincerely hope you enjoy. So, here it goes... It's not meant to be pretty and it surely isn't supposed to be perfect though I believe that through it maybe just maybe I managed to pass on something to you dear reader - whether that be feeling, truth or I honestly have no idea what. I hope you take it with you and cherish it, for your perception, your universal truth that allowed you to comprehend this, that makes you, you . I shall not be further explaining the meaning, theme or other literary aspect, for a poe...
Dear Reader, Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have pixie dust? In life even the smallest of tasks can seem like the hardest: making your bed, cooking a meal, finishing an assignment, even sleeping can seem daunting when the dark tendrils of insomnia creep up in the corners of your mind, and drive you mad before you could even possibly imagine of entering the Kingdom of Dreams . But what if that's all we could do... dream? Dream our lives away, dream our worries away in an eternal slumber? Today's article is not a review dear reader, if anything far from it. Today I'd like to discuss the magic one can find just by dreaming, today I want to reach out of the screen you're reading this from and whisper a possibility in your ear. The possibility of pixie dust , a gift found in literature, making its way into our lives. Pixie dust , what a funny word. A term coined by none-other than J.M. Barrie in his no...
Dear Reader, “Painting does to the illiterate what writing does to those who can read.” --- Pope Gregory the Great When it comes to art, our minds flit from paintings and churches which scream grandeur with their gargantuan rose windows and their intricate etched fusion of colours. However, in my eyes, art can be anything, whether it be the bird's song we hear or the bleeding ink on paper which we bind ourselves to and call novels. We hold these treasures, rubies of our world, close and dear to our tragic human hearts as we yearn for things art in all its idealistic beauty depicts. We decorate our cities, embellish our own homes, and use each piece of painted or carved art as gateways to a life we desire, as deep down we know that our human touch is catalytic at best. Despite this, I like to think this is our own kind of beauty. Our own brokenness is a portal for passion we can use as our muse to paint our own lives and write them as we wish. Afterall, ...
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