Thursday, 29th of June 2017

Dear Diary, //Let us be credulous that, one day, such joy will meet our way. // I’ve found a memory covered and hidden beneath the forgotten dust of time — and a past moment had unravel before my eyes as it was this very present moment, as it was my true essence.

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Dusk it was, a particular moment of the day where this world and the other meet and become one. Where everything converge, twist and take a shape. Where everything around us is compelling and enticing, where our soul it isn’t a prisoner, isn’t contained, but instead disperse and free, connected with that invisible world, where, at once, is moon, light, sun, fortune, glory and hope. Dear Diary, I long for these kindred days.

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“Every time you feel lost, confused, think about trees, remember how they grow. Remember that a tree with lots of branches and few roots will get toppled by the first strong wind, while the sap hardly moves in a tree with many roots and few branches. Roots and branches must grow in equal measure, you have to stand both inside of things and above them, because only then will you be able to offer shade and shelter, only then will you be able to cover yourself with leaves and fruit at the proper season.

And later on, when so many roads open up before you, you don’t know which to take, don’t pick one at random; sit down and wait. Breathe deeply, trustingly, the way you breathed on the day when you came into the world, don’t let anything distract you, wait and wait some more. Stay still, be quiet, and listen to your heart. Then, when it speaks, get up and go where it takes you.”
― Susanna Tamaro, Follow Your Heart

End of May and you are still faraway

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                                                           Thursday, 25th of May 2017

Dear Diary,

There is something comforting about taking my socks off, resting my feet on the grass, and emptying my mind from my own howling thoughts… It’s magical permitting myself to feel the abandonment, the freedom from my personality, my middling interests and existing as an improvised tree. There is something magical about don’t move, don’t think, don’t speak. Something magnanimous about being and sparkle the warm-cold light of the dusk…  There is something perpetual about my feet against the fuzzy grass that exhale the demons out of my body skin. //End of May and you are still faraway.//