Author of quotes: Al Quotion. Page 29

I see the blur of the rapidly dimming sky, I see growing up in the woods, I see the rhythmical breathing of the ocean, the delicate pattern of frost on a windowpane, the Grand silhouette of the waterfall, a gleam of lightning, headlights of cars, flashing lost lonely passers-by, regally slow movement of glaciers, colorful umbrellas in the streets, a dead bird on the ground, a drop of dew on a rose petal, the wind in your hair... And I'm putting it all into a tight script, in a single unconditional unquestioned stage of being, an integral, indivisible, that one day I will call with his life. That day when someone will tell me, and I desperately, painfully, insanely not want to believe that the dying old man in bed is I...

I absorb this life as an artist is the strokes, I touch her hands, slowly undress instruments of consciousness, running my tongue over the hot truths lick from the surface of the hustle and bustle of the salty bitterness of experience. I stare into her eyes and I see the leaves fall as a consequence and cause of being. Because every point in it, flawless, perfect in its harmony of orderliness of the system, both the end and beginning of the universe.

Tomorrow is a new day. The sun will rise tomorrow. Large, bright, for everyone. And all will be well, and we finally understand that happiness was always with us, just the pain we loved, noticed more often. And that those people we so desperately want, losing himself, stood and hugged her shoulders, smiling silently and understanding all the metamorphosis of the soul. And that any poetry beautiful only when alive your heart and soul breathes love into the dead as a matter of words. And that the sun rises every day and this is the greatest miracle given to us. And I love you. And I'm with you.

Room winter. And the feeder on the window with bread for the hungry frozen birds, and the soft window light that never goes out, and the quiet cozy warmth, as if my house is not the end of the Christmas holiday, and the sounds of laughter, and the recitative poetry, which I sometimes read aloud to someone you love, and warm milk, like cotton candy sky, and it is impossible for a long kiss, when I breathe you in the throes of passion, and you're naked shoulder blades hit the wall behind which the winter. Winter keeps a lot of fairy tales...

The old man who loved birds. The bench, the dried bread and the speckled pigeons, cooing about spring and trustingly suitable so close that you can consider in the round eyes of the Park and a little slice of heaven. That's all he owned, but more and he did not want to. But how touching, how deeply he loved this carved bench, these funny clumsy birds. So can love people on the decline of life, resigned to the loneliness of man who has nothing left than to cherish that once scared to lose. Once upon a time he loved the sea, and now the rustle of the wings reminded him of the soft whisper of the surf. Spread the bread, he closed his eyes and it seemed to him that he hears the cries of gulls, and the air smells of salt, and he was so young, so happy, and all life still ahead and the best will happen. And then he hugged her weak, trembling hands your tiny little world, far from the bustle of the city, born on the corner of Park quiet tenderness and faded memories, and didn't want to die. When he collapsed, the ambulance came some men with gentle smiles on the faces of indifferent took him, he was crying. No, not from pain, it is familiar, it is essentially nothing. But he cried and tried to reach for his pocket, where lay the remains of the bread, the remnants of his own life.

The fact that you have. And this simple fact, cozy and warm hiding somewhere, either in the left side of the chest, or on the inside of the eyelids of closed eyes, or somewhere else where retreats body and soul reigns in this funny reality wakes me ridiculous season, forcing you to clearly see around at first glance inconspicuous, hidden from the eyes more of a habit for the winter than the natural climate. Jan. I collect flying on the ragged wind, scarlet leaves, pregnant with new life, buds of trees, I collect them like picking flowers to give your loved one, which became for the artist the inherent thirst for creativity, which opens new potential of the aging art.

And the same way, withdrawing into themselves, I continue to draw birds... And sometimes, looking in the mirror, I notice that he is nothing more than a bad sketch of a bird, written by the hand of an unknown artist on the crumpled piece of random reality.

The man was in love with a woman named Life, which often stayed with him. He gave her tea and told her tale, and then they fell asleep on the sofa not expanded, hugged. He just quietly lived near the stream of eternally melting snow, and does it matter that he only had one wing.

What is love? You're falling headfirst, eyes closed. On bare skin shines in the openwork of the words and the warm velvet darkness. Any sounds turn into music, and you set the metronome breathing on the beat of the heart. Palms you feel light, you gently touch the inside of the soul and she begins to sing. At this point, a long fall turns into flight along the edge of the sky. You freeze to collect the lips of these stars, but gentle hand upon the clavicle, grabs his shoulder, gently pushing you back and you... you fly. Cloud dancing snow pushing blades weightlessness... And bitter with her hot body slowly slip into eternity silk underwear. And in the trembling space between desire and silence, between your bodies, you're face-to-face with life. But what is life without love...

We often talk about Divine inspiration, about the fit, more than this, the magic of unearthly revelation. When artists dream of your future pictures when poets write poems in the same breath, choking on the words, when scientists scream Eureka, and their dilated pupils converges in a smooth formula that was merely a premonition of something big. Breakthrough, discovery, ecstasy. Manna from heaven... or the fruit of the labor? The result of the obsession with his business? After all, the man, a full breast inhaling their creativity, be it art, science, anything, the person living it, in love with his work every day passing through the mind, through the soul, through the heart of thoughts, ideas, reflections, feelings, all the shades chosen craft, sick of this unbridled passion, sooner or later begins to transfer it to all areas of life, creating another paradox of the subconscious. So a housewife, every day, weighing the tuition of his son, worried for him, suddenly starts to dream how he fails the exam. And if reality by coincidence, one gets analogously to sleep, its lively fear stung every day, are similar to the prophetic dream, thus the Divine revelation, being in fact no more than a standard feature of thinking. But how a man wants to believe in miracles, in God's chosen people, in touch from the angels wing. So let it be to each according to his faith.

When I asked: "Who are you?" I confidently answer: "I am nobody. I am a fragment, a shard of the world, flashed in your hands for a fraction of a second before disappearing forever."

To appear wise during the fashion for mystery just. To be im - impossible.

They are afraid to make a move. Show the person to call and tell you the truth, will meet with a warm Cup of fragrant drink and to talk. Yes just be yourself, not that funny puppet image with the thinking of search engines and tasteless the perfect beauty of the avatars, but simply human, no more and no less. They scratch the inside of the illusory shell of loneliness and waiting for someone to make a move for them, occupying their leisure time finding new and new excuses for inaction. They are afraid to make a move, because outside the window the rain, not the Eiffel tower in the rays of the sun of Paris, the hair was tangled, near to the eye had been laid the first lines in the words and then felt the gaps of knowledge and the tremor of uncertainty, the mood is spoiled by accident, the slow life settles obesity of the body, creativity melts in everyday life, fairy-tale palaces turn into the shabby Wallpaper and unwashed dishes, freedom to nagging elderly parents, the wealth of the soul is lost in the poverty of a life and dissatisfied with the boss at work and the man himself does not want to be yourself, live in your favorite puppet not capable, not ready to make a move. But, my God, how easy it is to walk on the rag world with a common indecision.

To rhyme a couple of lines can almost everyone tell the story of his childhood, of growing up, of becoming, all the twists and turns of fate, all the paradoxes and open mind, all the flaws and the greatness of the senses, the life as it is, from the occasional attack of migraine to the political structure of the country, from the first memories of a mother's arms to the complexity of the relationship with God capable unit. Poetry is language and language is a communication tool, giving you the opportunity to speak. It is a sword and palm branch, is the turn and Laurel, it's a gift and a curse. But the overall devaluation of poetry is not that left those who are able to speak this language, and that left those who know how to listen.