Not today…

riskI spent most of today sleeping. Not because I was tired, but mostly because I felt like doing nothing. When I finally decided to get out of bed and write some stuff, the power went out. Ironic, isn’t it? I had spent most of my day telling myself that tomorrow I’ll have plenty of time to write, and when I couldn’t, I panicked.

There are few simple truths in life, and one of them is the fact that we rarely appreciate what we have until we lose it. Until it can no longer be. We tend to take things for granted, and when those things are taken from us, that’s when we realize how important they were.

We’ve always despised the ghost of what can no longer be. Continue reading

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An artist’s artist

“Keep your eyes on the stars, and your feet on the ground.”Theodore Rosevelt

I think this one should be my motto, because I’m a strange mix between a realist and a dreamer. I’ve always wanted an extraordinary life, I’ve always felt that I was born to be great at something. I dream big, okay? I want to be the hero of my own life’s story, and I want it all: the good and the bad, and the great, and I never, ever give up. But I also try to keep my feet on the ground, to take it easy… step by step. To figure out exactly what foot I should place first.

To me, there are only two things worth fighting for in this life: art and love. And there are no rules of engagement. It’s all about hope, about passion, about the fight that resides inside our souls, about the spaces that rest between people… about the million different ways those spaces magically disappear. Continue reading

No More Time

Originally posted on story-a-week:

Here we are, holding hands, staring down at the dark, endless abyss. Here we are, standing at the edge of forever. Time does not exist here.

It’s just now. No future, no past. Just now. A singular moment, an infinite stretch of emotions and words left unsaid.

“I could conquer the world with one hand,” I tell her. “If only you’d hold the other.”

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How to become an artist

writerIt seems to me that we spend our childhood building our initial vision of the world. We do our best trying to answer as many questions as possible, and in our eagerness to understand everything around us, we name things and label them and we think that we’re absolutely certain that things are exactly how we see them.

And I also feel that we always return to this initial vision. Continue reading

Art is the new black

Originally posted on irevuo:

art_blackAs promised, here it is, another article about art. In my opinion, art isn’t something to be discussed in a few lines, so I feel like I didn’t make it any justice. The reason I believe so, is because the other day I only managed to establish one of the rules, today I feel like covering another aspect.

We are surrounded by many forms of art ; movies, music, poetry, novels, paintings, whatever floats your boat. Everyone is free to embrace it as they wish but things aren’t going exactly like they used to and I am aware that sounds like a cliche. Unfortunately, it’s true.

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Arting out loud

Cristian Mihai:

Indeed. Irevuo is making a comeback. Or at least trying to. Check this out.

Originally posted on irevuo:

artArt. A simple word, covering all the beautiful aspects in life. Three letters, used to sum up hours of crying, unrecognized feelings and emotions, loneliness or substance abuse. If you are not falling apart, you can’t have the word. Art is not meant to describe your happiness, but to make others happy. One’s misery can easily turn into someone’s rock, if you know how to polish it.

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Good Morning, Paris

Cristian Mihai:

In case you’re wondering what those “projects” I’m working on really are. I’m excited to introduce “story-a-week.” Each Tuesday I’ll be posting a short story. For your entertainment. And stuff. Hopefully you’ll enjoy.

Originally posted on story-a-week:

Everything she did carried with it the solemn grace of a ritual. Her mornings were alike, but never the same.

She’d walk out on the balcony of her small flat to stretch her arms and legs and breathe in the new day. Her lungs filled with something more than just air, something exhilarating and fresh, wearing a pair of black shorts and a white undershirt, her naked feet caressing the marbled floor, she’d smile at the lethargic city.

“Good morning, Paris,” she’d whisper, staring at the Eiffel Tower cutting through an angry sea of buildings, cars, and noises.

As the new day rushed through her veins, her smile would grow bigger and bigger. Her smile screamed of life and passion and love. Her smile was life.

She’d spend a few moments of quiet contemplation, thinking about what was old and what was new, about what could be, what had been…

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