It’s strange to have typing keys to flip endless verse into gray noise to reach the eyes of anyone within seconds. It can place our souls on a platter and scatter shards of ourselves to the ends of the universe. To bleed empty midnights on canvas, or into glass paged notebook is not in fashion. The spoon seems to be a shovel now. Everything gets fed to us and our dreams take the shapes of a billion and one hits to a blank page media.
But, hope is beautiful. Life becomes a flood when we open our thoughts. It comes to us from the random drops we feel touching our minds when we find ourselves in the deserts of our hearts. The brimming and spilling is our attempt to learn how to swim when the water gets too deep, when we choose to venture out in faith to the glorious horizon of our land. If there were no fear of drowning there would be no need for people like us, artists who, ironically, could care less about architecture yet have a burning passion for building bridges. There’s grace for drowning. Hope is beautiful.