Sometimes the simplest words speak louder,
And the flustered actions become clustered
And boxed into things we don’t understand.
The sky still bellows your name as I walk,
And I try to peel back its layers in hope
But I can’t.
There are times I try to lick the sky to
Seal the envelope, to drop you in the post,
To send you miles away to only,
Then, want you to
But I can’t.
I try to lift my fingers to rummage
Through the ‘paradise’ that sleeps above me,
to wake some sort of potion, for the inner demon
but it only
So I can’t.
What makes us love so uncontrollably?
Is it the need to feel satisfied, or is it the need to belong?
Love softens the heart. It pumps the blood red warmth of feeling content through the body. It keeps the blood flowing in the veins. It keeps everything in check.
So do we really need to love? As humans are we conditioned to love, if so, why?
These are the questions that linger in the average person’s mind but are stifled by the everyday tasks that seem a burden to us; day in, day out.
Loving only makes us weak. So people say. But, does it not make us strong to emotionally and physically attach ourselves to another and prepared to risk everything for the longevity of the relations?
Is it weak to love, or is it weak to give up on the idea because you deem it doesn’t exist?
Why do I write? Charles Bukowski said it in simpler terms; he condensed it down to its true form.
‘Writing is the ultimate psychiatrist’
Writing is so much more than words on paper, or a person with an immense explosion of fumbling words that arrange themselves on a page with an ambition to become known. It is the truest form of self-expression, a raw form of art which is underestimated or written off as simply ‘easy’ to do.
Writing is not valued. But what Art today ‘is’ valued?
Art is the intricate details used. The use of a poised word that makes one feel deliberate emotions. It is delicate, raw, and difficult. It is the likes of the great art creators in Literature, to name a few would be merely impossible. They stooped to drink from the river of knowledge and wisdom, and the river flows continuously in our realm, within our grasps, but who is brave enough to stoop and share their art, to share their sacredness. Are you willing to stoop?
We, as writers, like to express ourselves to make our feelings known so that others can connect and relate. Writers like to travel to a pursuit with their vivid mind to a location that is unknown to them, and like to take their readers along with them. We want to grow, we want to see, and remove the blindfold that is placed on us. Writing helps us unravel and finally come to our senses, and only then can you create such profound Art. I want to remove my blindfold; I want to see the world for what it truly is. Come and join me on this pursuit for wisdom and the truth. My name is Arouge, I am nineteen years old and I will converse with you through my blog posts.
So are you coming?
Pssst! You have to follow me to come along ;]