Origin of Thoughts

For the most part of our lives, we remain foolish. In our childhood we were too young to care. Our distractions drive us away from the real tension that we create. And what we create will always be a questioning thought, which we don't need in the first place. Maybe we revolve around these thoughts, because we have nothing else to do. We roam around criticizing people that aren't like us, we worship those who rebelled the way we couldn't, we laugh when we live the way we always wanted, and just when we become what we realize, it's still missing something. Beyond our addictions and regrets, our whirlpool of emotions and the numb feelings that never, ever leave us, we will never know why we still do this. And yet we still do it. Humans are foolish. They don't just stop at survival. They explore existence and they'll never get tired of it. It's foolish, because then happiness will be at a distance, but the ones who make it will realize that there is more than ...

Because I can't feel my legs anymore. They're dangling on the floor of a room miles away, where they wish to be. Not here. They were not meant to be here this long. Fingers try to make castles out of the humid dry air. Nothing. The dark is blinding. And I see everything. That's why it all mixes up into one single colour. The colour of the world. And you think I can't see a thing. And my mind? You ask if my mind was in the right place? Could you point me out where it is actually supposed to be? Is it supposed to be dangling on the butcher's where all of you have laid yours? Have you thrown it to the sea because you wanted to start clear? You know where my mind is? It's in the middle of a bridge. One side of it leads to your reality. Another leads to my home. Tell me where I should go.

Imagine an age, an era, cramped into a single moment. We're bridges and buildings, burning, falling, rising, touching skies then falling again. Nothing remains forever. But the remains are forever to stay. It's an age cramped into a single moment. It's in one moment, which you pick up your pen. Inside you, you dust off the corners of your brain, search for the right words, the right depth, the right freefall. For that spot on the paper, which will be the beginning of your story. Blink, blink again, or close your eyes altogether and feel your soul searching, picking, and scratching in your flesh to find the right idea, the right treasure. Drink. Drink while you still can, drink everything you see. Drink the emptiness of the glass, the whiskey bottle, there is still some inspiration wandering. Drink the smell of your ink; drink the feel of the paper against your palms. Drink the passion of the love you just made. Search for more. You're still thirsty. Yo...

Inside Out. I'm running. I'm running, so fast that my breath is louder than my footsteps. I have no time to tumble. Behind me I see people shouting at me to run faster, telling me how proud they are of me. In front of me, I see my heroes, waiting to grab me and pull me to a place beyond this soul crushing forest. Sometimes I don't know what I am running for. It's like I'm running, looking for places where I can heal, but with every mile I keep losing bits and pieces of me. Often, I get scared that at the end, there will be nothing left of me. That one day I will reach the mountain top but when I look at myself I will see nothing. Nothing at all. Is it worth it? One day, I will not be scared of death. I will let it feast on me and happily remember all the times this body has helped me, betrayed me. But for now, I'm a coward. I don't yet want to meet my inner self. This side of me has done too many wrongs. I have though, explored myself in so m...