Fireworks

It’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There are no limits,there are no rules. Stop whenever you want, you can change or stay the same, you can make the best or the worst of it.

  I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again. There should be fireworks at last, when a dream dies.

 I still remember the day when I found out that something was wrong with me, I ran to my mum and told her that I was dyslectic. She asked me why and I explained to her that I couldn't pay attention to lifeless people when they were talking to me. I preferred to look at the trees outside and play with my food, but never ever listen to them and their tedious stories. She laughed, and then it got me. The only people for me are the mad ones.

 The ones who are mad to live, mad to breathe, mad to be saved,desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'AWWW!

 For me there are two kinds of people in this world, the ones who are drinking battery acid and the ones who are eating fireworks. I have to admit that I have settled into quite a boring existence here in Australia. However, I had enough fireworks and chaos. Who am I kidding ? It's never enough.

Project O.P.O.S.

PART 2 :

The End ... ?

What is important to me now?

Everything I've loved became everything I've lost.

Perhaps that is where our choice lies -- in determining how we will meet the inevitable end of things, and how we will greet each new beginning.

The chief beauty about time
is that you cannot waste it in advance.
The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you,
as perfect, as unspoiled,
as if you had never wasted or misapplied
a single moment in all your life.
You can turn over a new leaf every hour
if you choose.

There are as many worlds as there are kinds of days, and as an opal changes its colors and its fire to match the nature of a day, so do I.

There is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for.

Project O.P.O.S.

PART 1 :

Magic.

Sandra’s seen a leprechaun,
Eddie touched a troll,...
Laurie danced with witches once,
Charlie found some goblins gold.
Donald heard a mermaid sing,
Susy spied an elf,
But all the magic I have known
I've had to make myself.

 You know, I do believe in magic. I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic town, among magicians. Oh, most everybody else didn’t realize we lived in that web of magic, connected by silver filaments of chance and circumstance. But I knew it all along. When I was twelve years old, the world was my magic lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the past, the present and into the future. You probably did too; you just don’t recall it.

See, this is my opinion: we all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God’s sake. And you know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad of what they’d allowed to wither in themselves.

 After you go so far away from it, though, you can’t really get it back. You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When people get weepy at movies, it’s because in that dark theater the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they’re left feeling a little heartsad and not ...knowing why. When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust turning in a shaft of light takes your attention from the world, when you listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are. For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm

 The truth of life is that every year we get farther away from the essence that is born within us. We get shouldered with burdens, some of them good, some of them not so good. Things happen to us. Loved ones die. People get in wrecks and get crippled. People lose their way, for one reason or another. It’s not hard to do, in this world of crazy mazes. Life itself does its best to take that memory of magic away from us. You don’t know it’s happening until one day you feel you’ve lost something but you’re not sure what it is. It just happens.

These memories of who I was and where I lived are important to me. They make up a large part of who I’m going to be when my journey winds down. I need the memory of magic if I am ever going to conjure magic again. I need to know and remember, and I want to tell you.

between Heaven n' Hell