Take up arms. A new made up war that was planned long time ago by a bunch of brain cells.
Take up arms. In defense of liberty. In defense of profit. In defense of peace. What is real?
Take up arms. The location was unknown until the day that beheld a revelation had come.
Take up arms. Face the unknown that makes you worry and rant; and calls for teary eyes.
Take up arms. Make plans. Make distances insignificant. Make time spread, as ductile steel.
Take up arms. You bear the unbearable. Wicked pain. You might faint, but strong you remain.
Take up arms. Today, tonight. Tomorrow. I share with you my soul if yours gets stumbled upon.
Only real wars are worth the fight. The only real wars are those from the heart.
I want a sewing machine. Thus, for materializing dreams of fabric and building them the way I want them to be. To avoid looking at the sky, wishing upon a star. To make things real or make it seem like they are.
Marvelous it is, to learn the art of creating something that can be worn with pride, appreciated and even paid for… like a love received with reciprocal feeling and eternal tear-surpassing smiles. You can even fix what appears to be a little torn… like broken hearts revive at certain new dawns.
There is no room for coward excuses, or misleading signals, when things as this lay in front of you: rolled wool sheets, paper patterns, scissors and thread.
Peace may come between your mind and your heart while you sew. Hands busy, imagination and intellect working shoulder to shoulder. A verse chanted many winters ago, that has been traveling the world, sleeping on park benches and drinking rain drops, collapses completely at the sound of the needle moving up and down.
Being my wish more vain than the way I portrayed it, I must add a finishing line: Everything is valid in love and… when you write.