Rising From the Ashes

She rose from the ashes of the Godforsaken town, suffocated by the limits of nothingness that surround her. Breaking free is all she wanted... Breaking free is what she needed... Breaking free is what she would do...

Her flight to a distant place full of contradictions: It's where she starts... It's where she'll end. A familiar atmosphere blurred by the unfamiliar strokes of a hand painting a new landscape. Dreams fade as reality takes form, sending her soaring higher towards a Heaven only few of us can realize...

To be fooled by her beauty is to underestimate her power. Her fiery searing a mark on all critics; An incredible strength to carry the burdens of those bigger precedes the shedding of a sympathetic tear to heal only those worthy...

Moments of tribulations will test her... And on the verge of insanity, incineration will overtake her. Reduced to ashes... She will rise once again to start over the cycle and to forever be immortal in a world of self-proclaimed Gods...

Suffer, love.

There is something wonderfully agonising about feelings. Is it that they are so formlessly pure in essence? Or is it because there is something you almost cannot restrain about them? The mere act of opening your mouth to him, the possibility that at any stage, it might just give you away is so tantalisingly sweet, and yet before you do it, something begs at you to reconsider. And you close your mouth, at the same time closing your heart to whatever phantasmagoric sequence of images and events you were so intent on believing.

Suffer, love, indeed.

Who am I?

Can someone truly answer that question with the honesty and the pinpoint accuracy necessary for that question to hold any truth? Any meaning?

It's one of those existential questions, taunting all and daring anyone brave enough to venture the deepest of inner depths just to answer a seemingly simple question.

Often, not many have the courage or the motivation to even search past their name. "Who are you?" they would ask and I would answer with my name. But is that who I am? Just some coherently strung letters attached to a tangible entity? Merely a surface open for all those to judge? Perhaps. But maybe I deserve it for my cowardice stemming from my fear of what is unknown. So as punishment, I be what they want me to be. I am what you want me to be.

So can anyone truly answer the question? Sure, but they'd give an unfair answer to such an unjust question. I mean what's the point? To quote from one of the great movies of Generation X: "You see us how you want to see us... in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions."

And so we do.