Author of quotes: Al Quotion. Page 32

People will never paint the picture that far surpasses the banal pattern of frost on the glass or the ripples in a simple puddle when it rains. People will never compose music that will be better than the birds singing outside the window or the moan of wind in the desert. People never write poems more Frank and anxious than soft light in the eyes of the lover boy or the trembling fingers of the dying man. But we still create... May be because love, dressed in the attire of rage or acute sadness, but always it is love, filled with heart, freezing the black tar in the deep eyes inevitably seek out, splash to the outside, tearing his chest, settling on the tips of the brush, falling in scattered notes. Collecting us all the best with pain and blood taking inspiration from the origins of the naked soul, madly laughing or resting eyes dilated pupils visible only to her deep. And because the poets look sick, red from lack of sleep eyes to the sky, picking up the elusive word, and because the rabid musicians continue to touch the strings already stiff from the cold fingers, seeing nothing, and so the artists go crazy, dropping to her knees near neobychnogo of the canvas and crying... But it is in moments like these strange, living deep inside people are so vulnerable in the space of a solid peace, stitching under the skin of their weaknesses, along with breathing the keen air of the poisonous pollen of creativity... It is in these moments they see God.

Live in the present. Forget the past, it brings sorrow, don't think about future, it brings anxiety, live in the present, because the only way to be happy. Every day someone is definitely telling me these words. It is not difficult to understand, such thinking is now in Vogue, they are full of colorful images, his profound love to repeat bored Housewives. This is useful as a convenient psychology one-day butterfly, psychology the life of the loan. Now take your stub light the human yawn contentedly purring on needs and not think about anything, I will pay you tomorrow and it's so far away from you. I talk to people, bearing this simple idea as a banner, and suddenly realize that the world crashed. In their naive, believing in the infinite goodness of the eyes he went to cracked, collapsed on the scanty fragments of the past, the mosaic of details. Live in the present because living in the past or future hurts so much... And life, because it includes all, it has no boundaries, it is not divided into times. And I say: live, love life, cherish the past, it taught you rejoice truly, it poured love, believe in the future, it belongs to you, not a fraction itself, for days, don't deny the integrity of being, nor lock the soul of the wounded beast, neither in the past nor in the future nor in the present. And be happy, because happiness is not in the selected piece of fate, it is, as beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Do not make the limits of understanding. Here thy words, fast ants are running in the belly of the monitor, slip on my eyes, drowning in failure of the pupil, but this is not the limit. Here your voice, colouring, child, colorful hues of emotions flowing in me, echoing on the membrane of the senses, but this is not the limit. Here's a look at yours, to support, to stubbornness, stupid screaming outside your heart flutter under my hand, but this is not the limit.
Do not make the proximity limit. Here your skin, elastic veil of heat, wet invitation to a kiss, and I draw on her fingers the words of the spell, but this is not the limit. That's your passion, burning inside, burning inside the soul, instinctively shrinking from the light, but this is not the limit. Here thy breath, the salty thirst, penetrating into my lungs in divorce sharpened love, but this is not the limit.
Don't limit life. That's spring in the blood dancing in his madness, falling into the sky, tearing apart clouds of thoughts on the scarlet strip of sunset, but this is not the limit. Here the sea rushes into your chest, takeoff from a cliff, stun desire to be, scatters the spray of happiness in density of laughter, soft flowing on a naked body, but this is not the limit. That's life, knocking down, prisivashya to the shoulders ridiculous wings, yours, only yours, infinitely deep, painfully bright, rising wind and falling cherry flowers in outstretched hands, but this is not the limit.. And smashed in the hands of the petals, do not make the limit of death.

I walked to where the city ends. I walked through the bustling streets, where colorful cars turn into black-and-white people with sad eyes, and the lights of the highways dazzle the eye and maddening the beautiful night. I walked across the dusty roofs of houses, where stray cats can smell crazy spring, and the wild doves eat from the hands, watching with round eyes for an awkward funny person who has brought in the pockets of the bread. I walked through the parks, where the symmetry of flowers adjusted to the angularity, but children's laughter is heard more often. I walked to where the city ends. Where you and I sit down on the beach and will look into slowly red in the horizon, not in a hurry, telling each other nonsense and laughing shared memories. But where was the out one city, the other begins. And again hooted the car, were going out of the train, people were rushing to live, knocking the feet of random Rosa, and someone else wanted us... We had a short goodbye with a handshake, we ran for, infinitely reflected in growing in the eyes of the Windows, we talked about the most important, but flew the plane and the sound of our voices melted... then it snowed. As if from nowhere. As if a miracle. Just one morning we woke up, left the house, and the city was no more. Was the wilderness, the starry sky under my feet, there was light and there was silence. And then I looked up, staring into the blueness, and understand where the city ends.

And the end of the world... What if the end light, then I'll teach you to love darkness.

Blind human faith in miracles, blind, naive and dense. But while the crowd of fanatical, out of boredom, going crazy people put canned in dusty closets, a miracle occurs. It is in this pale sky, greedily twisted black branches of naked trees, it is in these sleepy birds, it in a dizzying dance of snow outside the window. It is in these funny men, it has in the us. It's everywhere.

You know, when you sleep at night when outdoor light falls on your face, I draw your eyes. Clumsily, tools sleepy imagination I come up with them open. Blue as the sea, or black, like coffee, doesn't matter. Only one thing is important, that they were looking at me. So I looked into them. Because I know morning will spin life, zamechal us into the dough fuss, crafty will whisper in lost soul funny ridiculous things you forget again just turn and look at me, and I again forget to tell you something important, hidden deep in the heart. But the next night I again won't sleep. I'll draw your eyes. Maybe one day the scales of fate outweigh this grey sky, falling in puddles, these racing anywhere in the car, spray the wheels stagnant loneliness, and we take a pause in the noise of the city, hold hands, just as in early childhood, and you look at me the painted one night eyes.

History is written by the winners. But what is more important for a person who can love, who feels the world more acute every day: etched in the books the story of the birth of the Kingdom or immortalized in funny children's picture story of the birth of his own son?

How easy sometimes to love the ships. In the difficult days when the sky is falling apart, when fate is tied in tight knots, salted troubles when your man from the prop turns into a strike, when no more strength to open your eyes and see all the same: the wall of the house outside the window, not waste, nedomytye the dishes, boring work, insincere friends, unpaid bills for life. When things, life, weather, migraines, fights turn into a single meaningless grey lettering... it is so easy these days to love the ships. And close my eyes, to see the snow-white sails taut in the gusts dense to vertigo the wind, and almost feel underfoot unreliable thin the deck, the only barrier between you and relentlessly beautiful ocean.

Autumn in the soul of man. Like spring, summer, any season, any weather. And so the same rain someone with joy and anticipation of the cleansing will substitute your hands and another will frown heavily, whisk in the random stream in my arms tighter will tighten the coat. Weather in us, and the rain... it just goes. Devoid of shades of good and evil, joy and sorrow, the rain comes through our souls.