Fairy tale

Outside is so quiet.

There was a long time ago when I was cycling with Oscar but my blog has the same name.

And what about all the fairy tales. Provoked by the fright are the canon of our books, we start them as the childrens and later on we convert them to the stories of American writers, fascinated by their lives, with thoughts of our misery experiences, the lives that usually ended up in the hotel room with loads of boos around, the lives that left us so much potential in the words but owners exile from their bodies.
And what about the people. Do we always need them attention to declare our beings as important. What about the words we communicate with others. No order, no sense when we try to free our voice. The head full of thoughts that transparent through our tongs die on the corner of our mouths.
Four months past since I have arrived to Tromso. Today disagreement of treatment almost push me to quit my job and start again the searching of undiscovered. We try bring to the light the wisdom of our experiences but where is the knowledge of the solitude. Where are the examples of humans that possessing wisdom means being alone. Solitude in the piece of art. Solitude in the art of piece. Gathering them together create the mask of our invisible faces. Stupidity in the name of order, lost in the name of obedience.
Freedom of choice or another uncertain searching for love.

I write to so many people but in fact in their behaviors I find myself. The mirror of lack of authenticity. Everything once shown, once spotted. Repetitive circle of deeds flashed once more in front of our eyes. The balls of light that try to blow from the place we believed is soul.

And love and the creation of desires looking up for the words that come in the moment when we feel it. The words once more inspired and reincarnated by the language of hearts.

And thats it. Another fairy tell closed by the magical world of the letters.