Author: Black

Eaten by the shade, and I am wondering about the nature of crooked branches growing back. Scars and broken boughs, overgrown by thick knots, are not afraid of being broken and burnt. Putting aside books of how it should be, handed at the birth, there are no more guidelines, nor there are limits set by page corners.
Made by my own flesh, I enter what was seen as no man’s land.

I undergo cycles of my life, probed by the rusty sharp interceptions of my decisions. Braking speed limit becomes rather a choice than an impulse, and destination has come clear. Focus requires speed and perspective begs for a stop, so the speed of an end makes me dizzy and I sweep for a backdoor.
Exit out of the new corner sheds light on my heels and it’s a dangerful field to be lost at. Here, where dots from old stitches reveal the light of the old parallels, movement comes naturally. If not this, it’s the next door.

There is a charm to insanity, and I very much sympathise with the idea of madness. So much to be discovered at the borderline, in search of peace and silence. Can serenity be found in craziness?
The uncontrollable and unpredictable buzzing, shouting and erratic movement, true spontaneity in uncontrolled environment.
How this all form a dance, a song or a piece of art? I am so curious, at what price does priceless come?