The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth


Leave a comment

We Could do Worse than be Lovers of the World

I do not understand those who do not love art. Mathematics and sciences are exquisite in their own right; there is something magnificent in the intricacy of numbers and something oddly beautiful in the proving of theories, of correction, and of truth.

But art, art is beautiful in that it asks no questions, and yet holds every answer. Art is beautiful in that there is not simply the stark black and white of rationality, but a kaleidoscope of colours in between. Art is beautiful in that it lets us see inside ourselves, to beyond the bones and blood that science comprehends, the cell counts and pulse rates that mathematics understands- it sees our being, and it reflects us in itself.

Art is beautiful in that it is not just present in pictures and poems and films. Art is a showcase of the parts of us we cannot fathom into sentences. Art is in the tears that course down on our faces in those dark empty nights, art is in the smiles that glide effortlessly from our lips on those bright mornings. Art is in the gentle sighs that lace through the fading twilight, and the laughter that froths in the afternoon sunlight. Art is in every hair that raises along goose-bumped skin, it is in hasty goodbyes and lingering kisses. Art lives in the words of our favourite song, and in the patterns our footsteps make in the first fall of snow. Art hides in the scribbles of our cluttered words on crumpled yellowing pages; it is smeared across the canvases we paint in blood and tears, in lies and love. Art nestles in the crevices of our palms, in the curves of our eyelashes in the dusk. Art is there in every breath, every heartbeat.

I do not understand those who do not love art. For we are human, and in ourselves, we are art.


2 Comments

I Wear My Dreams

I wear my dreams
Around my neck,
So hope lies close to me.
Slim silver chain
Holds silver tower,
And tiny silver key.

Tower talks of tales,
In new lands where
Real towers stand tall.
Key holds the secrets
Of mind’s wishes,
And silver chain holds all.


Leave a comment

A Love Affair with Eyes

There’s something about eyes that just captivates me. When a mask is carved and placed expertly over a face to create a void of emotion, eyes are the one things that consistently shine through and show how we really feel, who we truly are. Out of everything in a person, eyes always remain in my mind after the memory of a face has long since faded.

I love eyes of any colour, wide and child-like or small and scrutinising. I love eyes that are seas you could drown in, with hazy flecks of colours swimming through their gentle following colour. I love eyes surrounded by paths of crinkles and wrinkles that tell of a thousand frowns and a thousand smiles. I love eyes with glints of secrets shrouded within, the ghost of stories yet untold hiding and waiting to be discovered. I love eyes that express more than words and a smile ever could; eyes that create a memory so vivid it engrains itself into our very minds. I love the eyes of children, filled with innocent delight and an unending curious gleam. I love the eyes of the older, brimming with tears spilled and frothing with laughter, bright, wise sparks of life in a wrinkled, ageing face. I love how every eye sees the world in a different way, and how no two eyes could ever look the same; eyes who have withheld the beauty of this world and have endured pain and sorrow, eyes that reflect every memory in a kaleidoscope of colour and brightness that I can’t help but fall for each time I look upon them.