New life sprouts and sees
a vast maze and little sun
a view looking back.
What is it that defines us?
Or, what is “us”? Are we not all formed by our surrounding? Is it not our parents, school, city and country that forms us? Don’t we speak the language of our neighbors and follow their customs?
Or would you be the same person if you were born in a different time and place? Is their a soul that contains our personality?
I ask these questions because I hear people often claim that their way of doing things is the best way and sometimes even that it is the only way. How can you claim that your way is the right way if it is spoon-fed to you? Can they not imagine that the other side has contradicting ideas because they are raised in a world where their ideas where spoon-fed to them and thus prevalent?
My conclusion for now is that it is hard for us human beings to live in constant doubt about our own identity where we constantly ask ourselfs if our opinion is given to us or is somehow original.
The world is ruled by people that claim that they know, but we all know that they don’t. Is humankind still in its adolescent face?
scene from a distend valley
a hand in moist grass.
I like writing poetry, but I have no clue what I am doing. The only judge is in my head and in that sense it’s a pure self-centered creation.
Within photography there are certain rules, and I tell myself that I know those rules even when I go more “artsy” where the line between just a picture and art is thin and open for endless discussions.
With poetry I have no boundaries besides that it must “feel” nice or that it must fit within a few unconscious grammatical rules. It’s a story in my head that gets realized whilst writing and juggling with words. If the words tell the story that was created simultaneously I smile, read it one more time and go on. It’s not an act or a thing I do, it just happens like any other creative process.
Because it’s not a skill I learned like carpentry I cannot judge myself, I have to rely on the judgment of others, a teacher and that’s difficult.
There are only a few good teachers and many more students that think they can teach. The chance I meet on is small, that I would recognize him or her is even smaller.
Grey sky surrounding
the wind propels you forwards
leaving you behind.
From a stem within my mind
Downhill to the rim.
Adhesion for now
after falling from afar
in bitter stale air.
Light shines a corner
a dreaming line fades this dawn
black veils receding.
assessed by many facets
in virgin colors.