As a creature of habit, to move from a situation to another can be startling; or maybe even worse, it can be a burden on a broken psyche. To experience that sadness seems like a logical step in dealing with mortality; but the result, whether logical or illogical, can remain a thorn in one's side and bring one to their knees, wishing for an ear or an eye to witness them. To remain alone in the midst of depression, is a curse; for which there seems to be no cure.

The tool that is used more often than any other, and has the ability to shape one's thought and one's feelings through its use and misuse. A truly powerful invention of the mankind, designed to control and to liberate. From "Look Onto My Work, Ye Mighty" to "Quoth the Raven: Nevermore", language has been there for the human since birth through death. But what if one lives in an unharmonious paradox with it? What if one is restricted through this tool, by the nature of his birthplace?

The weight of standing on your feet all day, clutching a bunch of crumbled papers they so meticulously numbered from "AD-270" to "ZX-740"; and your information written on them time after time, only to be told that what you prepared is insufficient and you need to go through the pain all over again. That is the essence of paperwork, that is the true core of bureaucracy. It's an enemy to comfort, and an ally to muscular spasms. It lives, so it can organize; and it lives, so it can feed on the will to live.

Bob Dylan once said "We Live In a Political World", and as much as one tend to stray off the cesspool of political discussions, it seems like there's no way to avoid it fully. One of the avenues where politics show its ugly head, is in relation with art. What is art's place in politics? Or what is politic's place in arts? Is art nothing more than a political agenda for the artist? Or is art in and of itself anti-politics?

They say it is the fate of each and every member of the human race to remain alone; that loneliness is hereditary and there's no escape from it. Though they fail to mention that even with the possibility of a kernel of truth within those words, humanity does not need to go through his loneliness without accompaniment from those who one calls "friends". Friends are there to share the journey, and friends are there to help each other; and through that maybe, and just maybe, humankind is not always alone.

Rage has a key to open up those far recesses in one's brain; designed to keep the most private of thoughts away. With anger, words are spoken that come through without any filter, good or bad. With anger, one might feel relieved of carrying a burden that weighed heavily on one's shoulder; but what to do when the anger dissipates? How to live with the aftermath of anger, as if nothing has happened? How much it will break an already broken psyche?

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The shallowness of admitting that you need to be loved, plagues the brain of many writers and those who want to consider themselves enlightened. "Humankind is born to be alone, and thus it shall remain alone" is a mantra that for many is the basis of their judgement of their wants. But as shallow as it may appear, the desire to be loved and to be wanted is not unheard of. Some do want that someone beyond the sea to look for them.

To write is to create, and what is creation if not seen through the eye of some beholder? To have an audience, to have someone who will look upon the words you put upon a blank page and to have someone to appreciate them is a true gift. A gift that can bring a smile to the lips of an artist, no matter the creed or the era or the age. You can be someone who has put pen to paper for the first time, or the most experienced of writers; when you hear those elusive praises, it will perch your lips into an unwanted grin.

Any human of any age needs to come face to face with the horrifying truth that the art they love is not their own. They need to see as the owner of that piece of art destroy it, or celebrate it. To see it being torn shred by shred, in front of the masses that cheer the executioner and congratulate him on a job well done can bring anyone to the verge of tears. Such is the tale of a little animated movie by the name of "The Lion King", and the merciless butchering of everything grand about it by the hands that unfortunately owned it. 

"Look onto my work, ye mighty, and despair!" is not just a cry for destruction. It's a will and a want. It's when a human being works hard to leave anything behind. A piece of literature, a drawing, a poem, a musical composition, or even a short movie. Sand is the title for a project that is barely alive as of yet, and may as well change its name before it becomes a fully fledged baby. Sand is here, it's a fetus. Will it grow? or will it be aborted? It all falls on the shoulders of the man who conceived it, and that man is terrified.