Pandora - The planet of life

Nature's beauty in it's full, unscathed, untouched, unobstructed form. Resembles, in my mind, what our Earth must be like earlier. The Earth I miss. The Earth of the past, before man "claimed" it, the Earth of the future when Nature will claim it back. Dense lush forests...bulging, roaring and rushing rivers and falls. Clouds like mountains, mountains like clouds...Wind blowing freely and on them birds of infinite plumage. The unhindered growth, the NOT-over-sized vegetation, because nothing is "over"...and so is nothing "under". The people living in and among the nature, "connected" to it. As a part of it, like every other animal and bird does.

Slow death of greatness

It was once said to me, "A great man decays before dying."

I agreed then and I agree now. Greatness decays, phases out. From sunlight to starlight...It doesn't go in a flash. But the path it takes on it's fall is not the same as to the top. If it was, that would be a slight consolation. But it's not. And when this tower falls, one sees only dust. Everywhere...and everything is engulfed in it. Dust which drowns and chokes whoever is near. The shroud covers not only the dead but those who mourn. And when it settles, what lies there are the broken pieces, the remains of glory. People occupied in the memory of glory, not of the dead lying before them. The dead who achieved glory...and who decayed. And suffered alone as he witnessed what was being lost. He suffers because no one understands more than him as it was he who was Great. He suffers as he watches his fall from Nobility to commonplace, Pride to mere inertial superbia and then to no honour at all. He watches himself as he goes through this painful spiral from Inspiration to expiration. No one's suffering can be equal to his as he watches his Greatness flat-lining.

Case of an artist

An artist is constantly in a sort of duel with his own creation. Both seem to be engaged in a struggle to shape each other's image. Either he can turn it into a beautiful masterpiece or it can make him just another average painter. I feel like an artist all the time. An artist stuck at a point where he knows something is not right but can't figure just what. Like a writer lacking a right word. The impasse lingers on.