Stars

Symbols of eternal infinity and the epitome of dreams

Protector of the universe from the touch of the desperate and the grim

Twinkling and shining, emblazing the world with a tongue of light

Embodiment of the heroes and their hands with might.

(Source: scarletnotes)

The Bookworm Strikes Again

I’ve been reading Paulo Coelho books since Fourth Grade, the same time I started reading Antoine de Saint Exupéry’s The Little Prince (Le Petit Prince), and that, since that time, I’ve started to love books about life and dreams.  I’m a writer by nature and a bookworm at/by heart, and unlike other people, I read books because I’m interested, not because it’s the latest trend.  Paulo Coelho writes in a manner that normal people understand. And what I mean by normal is; people who rarely use “sophisticated” words and they live and talk with common, dictionary words.  The book, The Alchemist is a good read because it tells you a story of a young  boy who seeks for his treasure and at the same time, teaches you several values and some things we should learn about life. 

Being a bookworm is fun. That feeling when you first touch the page of the book and that scent you smell when you inhale the book through its well written pages.  It’s a different feeling, though, when you start reading and you suddenly enter a different dimension completely dissimilar to this weird world of ours.  And as time passes by, we feel as if we’re the characters, drawn out by extreme emotions.  

I’m going to love books … till death do us part.

(Source: scarletnotes)

Wondering Mind

I sit and I stare. It is not nearly enough for me not to wonder how you are. And you, and another. I care far too much. Yet I am clumsy with my heart, with my words, with a knife. Words. They cut like knives. I don’t know how to bare my soul in a single whisper, or in a whisper at all. How does one talk, how does one try not to stalk? I follow them around corners. Ex lovers, friends, foes. I try to talk, try to understand, why they left. Why I am to leave. Why my heart has turned into a butterfly. Why my butterfly heart is far too clumsy to even be a butterfly. I care too much. I want a home, but all I ever get is a cocoon. I want to be enough, for people to swoon over my writing. For me to truly express. But since I cannot, they can’t either. I want to give and give, but then. When all has been given they strip. They strip me of my little cocoon where I have tried to take up residence, they want and they take. I just want them to be happy. My little clumsy butterfly heart.

Click and listen to this beautiful song while reading the above.

(Source: scarletnotes)