Every Friday, 1 artist/painter/poet/writer, letting their work speak for itself.
Chill of the Season
Not the wind, but the mournful sound of violin’s strings plays amongst the golden maple leaves. They gently move, keeping the rhythm. And I don’t know why the tears are pooling in my eyes. Maybe the soft melody tugs at something deep inside of me, pulls at my heart and vibrates in my chest. It speaks volumes of loss and sadness. The sound so hauntingly beautiful yet at the same time so indescribably painful. I let the tears flow freely.
I realize the change I’ve craved for so long has arrived. I should feel ecstatic, so how come I feel despondent. Perhaps it is just the remnants of an aged fear that still adheres to every fragmented piece.
I must let go of the past, like a tree shedding its last leaf in preparation for the next stage of its life. Left only with bare branches, which will bloom again in the spring. Firstly, they have to endure the frosty touch of long cruel winter. It will gnaw at them before they are reborn again under the warm rays of the sun. Not all of the branches will survive, but the trunk will. New saplings will emerge and will replace the broken, dying ones. The epitome of relinquished bindings by which I’ve been tied to this drawn out masquerade….. Not anymore…. Never again…
A little something about me and what brought me here. I’ve always had a vivid imagination ever since I was a small child. I’ve felt kind of lonely so making up stories and escaping to my “own wonderful world” helped me enormously. Growing up, the passion for the written word has never really left me. English is not my first language, but I love it more than one I was born with. Well it has been said I am more British than “Fish and chips”. I do spontaneous, crazy things (of course within reason). Forgive me for the old cliché, but we only live once. I enjoy the small things in life. I have a rebellious streak in me and can be a little eccentric as any of my friends will tell you.