There is no comfort, no regularity in going after the spectacular again and again and again. There is always a feeling, hypnotic even, enough to making me want to strive for that spectacular something with no knowledge of what it actually is. Tiring? It can be. Like you’re always moving and walking and yes, running, to somewhere and that somewhere just seems like both a step and miles away, altogether. And you think, how am I to know? There is no guide, not even a friend. Just you and this screaming sensation, like a promise telling you you’ll reach there, that somewhere. A promise you make unknowingly and break just as soon but keep coming back to, knowing you were meant to. Believing something for a somewhere. Blinded so boldly, I proclaim it my passion.

The life of roamer, craver for the creative. 

Endless effort and bliss.



The thing about mostly anyone in the artistic field—whose entire foundation is that of crazy devotion—sees the world unseparated from the thing that keeps him going: passion.

Their state of rest is in the state of a mind that is always on alert, to see the regularities of life, come to life like no one would have ever seen before. They seek to discover places beyond even the ones, newly discovered.

So no matter how hard they’re hit with the world’s indifferent behaviour, there isn’t, nor ever can be, a switch to turn off this constant search.

For in shutting down their passion, you’d have to shut down the person.

Oh and just ever you try. 



P.S. This was just a quick and random write after a while now! There’s been a few things keeping me busy which I’m (somewhat) sure I’ll write about in the coming weeks. Adios till then 🙂