Original Photography

Photo #11

The Perfect oven

I have a perfect oven, that is perfect in every way.

It looks perfect, and bakes everything perfectly, even if you are a terrible baker.

I am a terrible baker.

I can’t even make a decent cookie, let alone a cake, but ever since I got this oven, I’ve been baking like a pro.

A few days ago, I made a perfect chocolate cake!

That may not sound like much, but the thing is, I missed out pretty much half of the ingredients, including the CHOCOLATE!

And, hey presto! When it came out the oven, it was beautiful!

It was chocolate, moist, and rich, and I didn’t even add any thing related to chocolate!

But today, I was making a sponge cake, and when it came out the oven, it was BURNT.

This has never ever happened before.

Something is wrong with my oven, I started to relies that when green smoke started pouring out of my precious oven!

Oh no….

Frozen

The man stood there, frozen in a block of ice.

His expression a mix of confusion and happiness, his hair wispy and grey, his weak figure reaching subzero temperatures.

If you look closely, eyeing up every inch of him, you can almost see his body trembling because of the frigidness surrounding him.

‘The Ice Man’, people call him, as of the mans current state, trapped in a frosty block of solidified water.

People would sit in front of him, and study him, pondering his life and his unfortunate fate.

Perhaps he was a magician, who would astound his audience with magical feats and whips of his cape.

Or maybe he was a store owner, charming his guests into spending far more than intended.

Whatever he used to be, no one thought much about; their main interest was about how he got into his new way of living (proposing that he was still alive).

Original Photography #10

Photo #10

one day

the breeze will blow one day it will carry your sorrows away.

hold on to hope, my love, the breeze will blow one day. the wind will rustle the leaves and…

one day

Yellow

It’s yellow.

I’m sure it is.

The glowing light which ripples its way through my body.

It has to be yellow.

Not a bright yellow, not a dark yellow, but a subtle yellow.

A yellow with the grace of a dancer, the grace of a feather gliding towards it’s resting place.

A warmth that flecks those around it.

Little, sunny specks, shimmering like gold, preserving feelings like you would anything else.

The secret they seem to whisper in your ear.

The secret that is so wonderful.

So wonderful it can it pass you lips.

The yellow embrace, of happiness.

Fake friends

Falling.

Waiting for the moment when someone catches you and embraces you in a warm manner.

But that moment doesn’t come.

You’re left struggling.

You’re left to pick up the pieces and drag yourself up to the task of brushing away the hurt, the confusion.

Pain.

The people surrounding you, influencing you are willing to let you crumble into dust, crumble into a position of no comfort, of no love.

The niggling feeling inside of you.

Like little mice are tearing away at your flesh, and dropping them onto the floor to be tramapled by unsuspecting feet.

Hurt.

The consequences of allowing the toxicity to weave it’s way through your body.

The poisonous attitudes that dance around minds, that dance around hearts.

Twisting, turning, hurting, teasing.

The fake friends.

Original Photography #9

Photo #9

My inspiration

My inspiration, my captivating song.

My ball of mirrors that reflect different ideas, different sources of creativity.

My inspiration, my motivation to achieve.

The oasis I dream of and try to reach.

My goals.

My inspiration, my medicinal treatment that heals the yearning for something to work towards.

The concrete of colour that fills up my gaps.

My inspiration.

Original Photography #8

Photo #8

Original Photography #7

The Voices

(Original Drawing)

The banksia.

A striking flower.

A well of knowledge.

A mirror that reflects all the paths I’ve walked down, all the doors that I’ve opened on this journey.

My feet wander on, eyes, mouth, ears opened, soaking in the voices.

The voices that talk to me, lead me, tell me stories of old and new.

More paths are taken, more doors are open.

My feet keep walking, surrounded by the whispering voices.

The voices that murmur pieces of information, the information that glue themselves to me, forming a cover, as though I have a second skin.

The sprinkles of colour that dance across my ebony page.

The sprinkles of paint, the thousands of people that crowd the world.

Waiting, watching, listening.

Straining their ears to hear the voices.

The voices that share their bountiful wisdom with us.

Explaining which paths to take and which ones to avoid.

The voices that encourage us to tell others, show others, help others.

The voices.

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