Live not, but let live.

(A bit) Sick and (really) tired of judgemental sighs and sarcastic laughters blooming our of people’s short-sightedness  and their inability to grasp differences and to see beyond the comfortable familiarity of their repetitive age old cognitive (so to speak) processes.

More often then not, it is not their choice to live a life confined to what was expected of them (a painful reality around which their own expectations of their lives have been built) which is frustrating. What is frustrating is when eyes which fed only from the twinkling light somehow perceived from the tunnel of their narrowed existence deny the need of others to want to fly to the moon and stars. What is frustrating is not, by any means, their self imposed celibacy with their own destiny and the fulfilment of their own existence. What is depressing however, is their inability to understand that beyond living a life when one exists only through the approval of foreign eyes, lies a life that does not happen, but that chooses to become. And in order to experience this gift, which everyone has not only a right to experience but a duty to do so, one must rise above those judmental sighs and sarcastic laughters and climb the mountain of their own fears and doubts in order to bewildered by the infinite depth of their own imagination.

Rise from your ashes, walk on the dust beneath which you will sleep forever, burn in the light for there’s no truth in shadows, and above all, do not judge yourself in measures foreign to your soul. You were made out of light, and only light can carry you  higher.

And never read again

Letterpoem.png

In the tenderest of night
Of the winter that passed
A hopeful letter had met
A pair of waiting eyes

Its words had stared
Patiently under the sky
The silence had been long
But not all indifferent

When stars twinkled
From afar, and as the day
Began to break
The letter unveiled itself

With shades of days that went by
Of stories of the fall
Of laughters of spring
And prayers of a cold night

While the parchment bled
And let ita fragrance waft
The wall stood strong
And the wind kept blowing

Beneath an empty sky
As the letter walked away
Words written kept lying
Where fallen leaves were buried

The letter had learnt by the wall
A lesson it wrote on itself
That there’s nothing one can do
About what has been written
And never read again