My imagination has gotten the better of me, probably because of sleep deprivation. Honestly, during vacations I usually turn my internal clock upside down. For a simple explanation, let’s just say that I indulge myself during this time of the year by watching movies non-stop, cooking and intensive holiday cleaning (the last one does not enter the above mentioned category of indulgence). This also means going to sleep at around 5 am and waking up around 11 or 12 the next day. I am like this for the entire 2 weeks of Christmas vacation since, probably, high-school.

So, of course, the madness that my subconscious has become, has also brought into focus one of my long obsessions regarding sleep. For a while, I have thought sleep as a complete waste of time or, better said, a weakness in the human body. We all know that 8 hours of sleep per night are essential for a healthy lifestyle. A study demonstrated that cognitive performance declines with fewer than 8 hours of sleep.

All of this led to me imagining a world where rest was not needed. That would imply that out of the 24 hours in a day, we would not be ‘wasting’ at least 8 of them doing ‘nothing’. In the ever-moving society that we inhabit, work takes at least 8 hours per day, but of course, considering the fact that big companies and multinationals have a very competitive working environment, employees are forced, in a way, to do everything they can to get ahead of their rivals, that also meaning working overtime. Successful people usually work up to 11 or 12 hours in a day. In a world where sleep is not needed, I have an inkling suspicion that no one would actually increase the percentage of free time in a day, but rather the work hours put in at the office.

The thing is that in my utopian little world, everyone works in a multinational or a big company. If you can not sense the sarcasm, let me make it clear: I am ironic. Maybe there are persons that are going to take advantage of all of this, maybe factory people that will be happy to get out, to spend more time with their families, to have hobbies, to enjoy life. That is, if nobody will increase the number of work hours.

I have to consider poverty also. When you sleep, you tend to forget about everything, about the hard life that is waiting outside of your dreams, about the hunger in your stomach, about the pains in your body. You sleep more with the intention to numb your senses, to dull everything to a simple ache. Without even the notion of sleep, reality would literally devour you, with all its hardships.

Another aspect that I should examine when eliminating the need for sleep, is the lack of dreams, or even nightmares. People dream to let their subconscious analyse whatever happened during the day, and prepare them for the next one, at the same time. Without rest, the subliminal will, of course, just have to work at the same time with the conscious part of our brain, in order to take the amount of time it needs to analyse everything. But dreams would disappear. No more staying in bed just imagining what could be, hopping for a better future; there would be no more nightmares for the troubled minds, no more sleepless nights for those with a heavy mind. In a way I would be eliminating our conscience, because when you keep busy, you tend to not have enough time to stop and think everything through, to consider the consequences of your actions. All of us would require a Jiminy Cricket of our own. Joke aside, where would our society be, in such a world?

There are so many aspects that should be analyzed in such a situation, but this is not an essay, it is just a post, with a lot of economic influences, for which college is to be blamed.

[photo: www.photobucket.com, Kurt Halsey Frederiksen]

‘It’s been 9 months, 14 days and 3 hours since I have been stuck in this place. In this wonderful place where life is simply pulled out of me bit by bit, where my soul is broken into a million pieces, leaving me haunted and empty. I can hear patrolling outside, heavy steps hitting the muddy ground. Rain has been coming down in gallons for the past few days, it is sad and wet, while even time seems to have stopped altogether… seconds into hours, hours into days and days into weeks. This year is the longest of my life, this year is my entire life, because there is no future beyond it and I can’t remember a past before it. Have I ever lived in another time and in another place?!

I don’t remember anymore. I go outside. The cigarette in my hand in tattered and ruined, but I smoke it anyway. It is the only one I have left. The smoke is filling my lungs, killing me little by little, but not fast enough for my liking. I am sitting in the door, trying to avoid the rain. I crush what is left of my fag in the mud bellow my feet. My boots are almost broken, the water is sipping through the holes in the sole and my socks are getting dirtier. Hmm … I don’t care anymore, if it’s cold or warm it is the same to me. I take a few more steps outside; my face now invaded by a thousand small drops of water. It’s cold and clean. I can feel for a split second once again, a difference from everything else around me at this point. It’s gone. It left as soon as it came. But that, I want that back, the ability to feel, the ability to understand things around me once again.

No matter how much pain is inflicted on me, I can’t sense it after so much time, even in the shower I don’t feel anything anymore. I am dead on the inside. My body has stopped responding to the life around it.

I re-enter the room I just vacated. It is damp and the smell of mould is invading my senses. The bed in the corner is wet and the mattress is ruined, while the sprints are digging into my back every time I sit on it. Pointless.

I put the gun on the wooden table. I trace the cold metal with my forefinger. Fascinating. To be able to feel again, to be able to hold her and love her once more. What more could I wish for?!’

From outside the barrack two men sitting for a smoke away from the pouring rain hear a gun shot.
Pity…

[photo: Angel, Falling : Final by *GwenGothIllustration, www.deviantart.com]

Things going through my mind at the moment: Frank Sinatra ‘Singing in the rain’; a boy buying two Coca-Cola cans just to reach higher for the Pepsi button; rainbows and rolling stones; 250,000 bouncing balls going down a San Francisco hill; my grandmother’s tired voice in the telephone; mountain trips; French seminars; International Trade essays; autumn leaves; kisses under a cherry tree; 22:01… 22:02; tea and hookahs; heartbeats; bad grapes; wet long hair; cold shivers; spoiled apples; the crashing of a wave on a deserted beach; double beds; carefree summers; lime tea with lemon; hot chocolate; warm cheese sandwiches; cold hands; one month; three months; white tulips, anniversaries; snow; fog; ice; freshly baked bread; warm rooms; novels; glasses; oil lamps; candles; ; bubble baths; puppies; black cats; good luck charms...

Are you tired yet of the labyrinth that my mind is?!...
I am...
[photo: weheartit.com/user/astronautas]

Lukewarm water, noisy faucets, dirty sinks and rusty tubs;
Old pluming, dusty shelves, stained windows and broken wood,
All of this and then some more are around me, feeling sore.
Live and breathe, try as I might, anywhere and everywhere
Only bees are still alright.
Close my eyes, shut off my senses, kill my mind
Automatize.
Feel the sorrow, cry the pain; sense the mud, experiment.
Draw the curtains, turn off the light,
So I can just feel alright.
Heavy eyelids, shivering limbs, warm tears; and trembling lips;
Dry hands and chipped, short nails; messy, curly, chestnut hair,
All of this and then some more are part of me, I’m feeling sore.

[photo: www.revolutionapparel.deviantart.com/]

On a rainy day, two people are walking hand-in-hand down an alley, all wet and cold. They are there, in the middle of this storm, but nothing can make them walk any faster, hurry them along or destroy their rhythm. If the sun was shining and the wind was blowing steadily on a beautiful spring day, they would have maintained this same pace, because no matter what, they are on a walk.

Five streets away, a little beggar girl is trying with all her might to hide a small stray cat in the folds of her ripped sweater. She is sitting at a corner of an isolated street, between cardboards and pieces of old clothes, where the water can’t get so easily, wanting to be as far away from the rain as possible. That corner is her home, or at least has been for the last 3 weeks. She is lonely and scared, but not for herself, because she knows that she can handle anything, but for the little life in her hands, that is shivering strongly, or maybe they are her shivers.

On another narrow street, not even 50 meters from the little girl, an old woman is on her hands and knees in the ever rising water. On the pavement, in front of her are bits and pieces of old papers and materials. She is trying to gather them all back in the wooden box in her hand. But everything is pointless; the water is soaking them fast, blurring the writhing and ruining the soft materials. The moment she picks up one of the black and white photos, the paper in her trembling wrinkled hand disintegrates, and the image is lost forever. The smiling faces, the happy memories are all fading now, with the water washing all over them. The tears in her eyes mingle with the raindrops, while she tries pointlessly to pick everything up.

Two alleys down the road, an old man is struggling to get away from the pouring rain. He can’t walk without his cane, which now, because of the wet pavement, is even harder to use. He is sick, so very sick, and pneumonia would be deadly for his weakening body. But he knows that no matter how fast he will try, his house is much too far away. He forgot to take his pills an hour ago, and now he is here, caught in the storm. He is continuously repeating in his mind that he has to take his medicine as soon as he gets home; but he will forget again, and because he is now soaked to the bones, his neighbor will have to call the doctor again tonight, one last time.

On a rainy day…

[photo: www/flickr.com/photos/greenka2000/1651247515/ ]

Autumn is back, it's raining and it's sad...
But even so, I can think of a million things that are enjoyable and nice, sweet and fun, relaxing altogether, even tough fall is here:
... coffee stains, chocolate fingerprints, warm milk, the smell of old books, dried flowers from last summer, old photographs in silver frames, the perfume of lit candles in the window, heavy drapes, warm blankets, classic old movies, comfy sweaters, layers of clothing, knitted socks, funny hats and big old scarfs, classical music, fluffy teddy bears, colorful leaves, the rain outside, the warmth inside, messy puddles, gray clouds, rainy days, the warmth of his hand in yours, papers, pens and pencils, inkpots and ink stains, the cat purring, the dog curling at your feet, cold hands and even colder lips, gloves that keep you warm, arms that keep you safe, scary pumpkins, family dinners, the first snow, the last leaf, bare trees, the fire in the stove, three course meals; and last but not least, good friends and even the best of friends to keep you company...
So no, I am not sad that autumn is here...

[photo: www.flickr.com/photos/_brilho-de-conta/360534666/]

The sand is tickling my feet;

the salty water is around my ankles;
the wind is blowing slowly and
the sun is setting nicely, disappearing at the horizon.
The breeze is cool, soothing my skin,
my eyes are closed and
your arms are around me.
I can feel your breath on my neck,
it makes me shiver. I smile slowly and
I open my eyes. I turn my head towards you.
Your nose is touching mine and you kiss me.
I twist in your arms, coming closer still,
while the wind and your hands
are playing with my hair...
Our foreheads are touching
and my eyelids feel heavy.
The moon is rising, the sun is gone
the see appears to be a looking-glass;
the smell of your skin is invading my senses,
making me just a little lightheaded.
A rustle of wings, a wave on the shore,
You and I on a beach...

[photo: www.naturalselection.deviantart.com]

My life is a room.
The first wall is also the last one, is black, blank, empty.
The second one is the most colorful of them all, is hazardous, is a swirl of colors and sounds, of first steps and first words. It is full of everything that actually matters, is joyful and happy because every stroke of that paintbrush is chaotic, random and at the same time is perfectly ordered.
The third wall is a mixture of wants and needs that almost never coincide. It's ordered and defined in a predetermined path at the end and a little bit unclear at the beginning. When looking at it, you can only see the victory of necessity over wishes and comfortability over hopes and desires from a long lost idealistic childhood.
The fourth wall is both the most boring and tired looking of them all. Here and there are splashes of color from other people's second wall, but in the end, it's all dull and full of regrets. The joy of being here, so close to the end, is ruined by past mistakes and unfulfilled desires. This wall is crossed easily and monotonously.
The first wall is close by again, blankness near and inviting, no bright light or loved ones waiting at the gates of Heaven, just darkness and emptiness. Closure in a way and finally peace.
This is my room, my life. Is average, it just is, not to impress or to disgust anyone, but simply to be, to exist, void of any purpose or meaning.

[photo: /www.katherinedutiel.com/series/the-white-room/]

[to be read slowly with a lazy air and long pauses between words]
'It's the 3rd of August today... still.
Dear Diary,
Life's a bitch. It's been a while since I have written anything. I guess I was either too bored or too entertained to find time for this. Right now I am actually really sad, angry, pissed off, sick of everything, bored to death, lazy, comfortable, with a strong need to scream at the top of my lungs. [...]I want to through up.[...] No, I'm not bulimic, it's just my stomach... of course I am not going to do it. I'm not suicidal. [...] Yet...
Scream...
Swallow...
Lick my lips... they're dry...
Drink some water. It's tasteless... it's warm... I want to spit it out. I don't... It would make too much of a mess... I would actually have to get up and clean the spot it hits. Too much trouble. So I swallow it.
The phone is ringing. Who cares?!
It's annoying. I should shut it off.
I'm too bored. He will give up eventually.
Outside it is still hot, if I go out there, I will start sweating. No, thank you. It's hard enough to breathe in here, why make it more difficult?!
I swallow again.
'I don't care anymore', lyrics. They sound nice... in another language. The song has ended. Pity. Hmm... this one is too cheerful. Whatever... stopped listening anyway. Noise in the background.
Shit...
I knocked off the water glass. Great...
I should get up... maybe I should have spit the water earlier too. It is too late now anyway.
Swallow...
Close my eyes...
Death... Sleep... whatever...'
[my take on a fictional diary of a very bored young woman... ]

[photo: www.cookiemag.com/homefront/mrsyoung ]

It's raining steadily outside. You're in front of a window, sitting on pillows and looking at the puddles that are just forming bellow you, on the pavement.
You breathe in, and when you exhale, the glass in front of you becomes foggy and the view blurrier. You start drawing patterns with your forefinger on the cold window. A raindrop touches that exact spot on the other side of the glass, where your finger is. It's cold. You can feel it, the difference in temperatures. Outside and inside. It's cold, it's soothing, just like kissing cold wet lips when you are a little bit too warm. It calms you down, it eases your senses. Your finger gets a kiss from a raindrop. Then the gravitational forces start kicking in and it starts to fall, to slide down the glass, until in reaches the wooden frame. You feel the need to trace it down, to prolong the feeling, but you know you can't, it would ruin the pattern on the window. So you let it fall.
Outside of you, of your room, of your building, it's still raining, the water is still gathering bellow. Your forehead is touching the glass window and you close your eyes. It's still cold and you can still feel it, nothing has changed. You breathe in deep and with your right hand you wipe the drawing from the window. It's just a name, as once it belonged to a face, just another face; and the clock keeps ticking and the time keeps flying by...

[photo: www.picasaweb.google.com/bowlerportraits/Illustrations#5133227264484009410 ]

William Shakespeare once said that "Nothing is so common as the wish to be remarkable."
My desire to be extraordinary has always haunted me and made me feel inferior to all the rest. I presume that this is one of my sins: to continuously try to prove myself and to constantly fail miserably.
I have done many mistakes in my life, and I am conscious of the fact that I will be making many more before my time is up; but this side of me, this need of mine to be better than the rest, at least in their eyes, no matter how much I try to bury it deep inside, it resurfaces again and again tormenting me and making me feel despicable.
On the other hand, if you are smart enough to be aware of this unwritten rule, and start acting similarly to all the rest, then you are doing it precisely to prove to everyone that you are special, as if you try so hard to fit in with the other people, but because of your superiority, you can never quite accomplish it. This, of course, is hypocritical of you. Only a truly modest person can fit in such a small patern, that of a remarkable being, and can actually be extraordinary, because he is not aware of it and at the same time he doesn't want it, or need it ar brags about it.
I am everyone and no one in particular because I am a human being and at the same time I am unique because I have a conscious with which I rationalize differently from all the rest.

[photo: www.designfederation.net/interviews/interview-with-jordan-clarke/]

Lying awake in my bed at my grandmother's house, I was hit (quite painfully actually) with the feeling that I was no longer a child, that I am twenty years old, with a very foggy future and a strong sense of uncertainty creeping up my spine. All that's left of my infancy are smells, noises and images. All mingled and tangled as cause of the years that passed and buried them under layers and layers of dust and forgetfulness.
If you close your eyes, can you remember how your childhood smelled like? I can: of fresh air, home baked bread, of flour and spices, of vegetables and fruits, of wild flowers and grass. I remember the scent of burned dry leaves and the mixture of gas and ashes with which my grandmother would light the fire.
I recall faint noises: the dogs barking, the cat purring, the old radio playing music in the background, the sound of my grandmother's spindle, the cracking of the fire in the old glazed stove.
Behind my eyelids I can see piles and piles of white snow, a black dog trying hard to push me in the biggest one of them, a dusty attic filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes, my favorite hiding place, right in the middle of the living room, under chairs and blankets; the exact spot between the bed and the stove where I would play with my dolls and everything seemed possible.
What do you remember?

I have an obsession with the 5^th of May. I haven’t got the faintest idea why, I just do. I can’t even remember when it all started. Nothing extraordinary has ever happened on this day, nobody was born and nobody died. I didn’t get my first kiss then and hopefully I won’t get my last in the years to come on this day. It’s simply a day marked in my calendar to celebrate it the best I can, for no specific reason.
May is the fifth month of the year and the third month of spring. The trees aren’t bare, because it isn’t too cold outside for the leaves to grow, the grass is not burned by the scorching sun, because it is not summer yet and the landscape is not overwhelmed with an infusion of yellow and red and orange, because autumn is still so far away. When you look outside your window, you can see the perfect scenery: nature is alive, noisy and fun, filled with the most beautiful green, it’s fresh and raindrops are shining from the grass blades like small diamonds in the gentle sun. The birds are back, they’re colorful and animated. They’re chirping all day, from dawn to dusk, flying in all directions, making you dizzy just watching them. The bees are buzzing from flower to flower. The air is filled with the sweetest smells, a mixture of lime-trees and tulips, of poppies and other wild flowers.
So how can you not feel alive on a day like this? When everything around you is full of energy and color? How can you not smile when the tree in front of your window is in bloom again? When the view from your balcony is improving, there are no neighbors with long ugly faces, just trees and flowers, as far as the eye can see.

[photo: www.cssaddict.com/downloads/desktop-calendar-for-may-08/]

Have you ever felt like you were walking a predetermined path? As if every single step you made was on someone else's footprints? More like your bare feet were touching the exact spaces they were meant to, not one centimeter out of place? If this is true, then where is our free will, the power of our own choices?
When I was just a baby, my fairy godmother wove my path in life, and I, while growing up, never disappointed here by straying off of it. This is a fairytale like scenario that in real life would be just a disillusion. Where is the joy, the accomplishment, the pride in doing exactly what you are supposed to?
Carrying on this sort of existence would only lead to catastrophe. If you take away our freedom to choose between good and bad, between light and darkness, you take away the very thing that defines us as humans. Maybe the choices that we make are just delusions, given by our subconscious minds, because without them, we would stop existing, but in the end, isn't this what makes reality that much sweeter?
Could you live in a world without options? Could you go down this road, knowing that it is the only one you can walk on? Would you be able to exist without alternatives?
I don't know...It would be liberating, but at the same time, I would feel trapped in a cage of my own creation. The choices made in advance would be the bars keeping me inside, and the will to escape, the wings that will help me fly.

[photo: www.pinkdogdesigs.com/painting.html ]

I am weary and I am happy. For no specific reason, I just feel content with everything and everyone. I suspect that in a way I am tired of fighting, of looking for the bad side of things, or maybe my eyes are burning too hard to allow for more tears to follow the last ones.
You reach a moment in your short pitiful life when you are under the impression that you can see a glimpse of light in the darkness that is lying ahead of you in your path, and then you smile. Maybe that is where I am right now, with a few moments before the light blows out, or exactly before you realize it was just an illusion. Honestly, I don't know and truthfully, I don't want to know. Life is all a big mess, so what is my excuse for trying to find a meaning to it?!
I laugh, I smile and I try to prolong this feeling, because who knows when we might meet again?
I don't and I am content...

[photo: www.rebeccapeedartplay.blogspot.com/ ]

Childhood dreams and childhood hopes. Wishes and desires all mingled in a tight ball of thin thread, so delicate that it can unwind at any moment, which will eventually happen in different places at various moments in time. When you stop being a child, when dreams stop being filled with blue butterflies and pink roses, when reality starts keeping you grounded to the world, you see pieces of thin thread being blown away by a cruel wind. And you finally wake up, reality is knocking hard at your door, making it impossible for you to keep dreaming and wishing for something better. You are here and you are alone and that is how it will always be...
There is no one to keep you company, to hold your hand while passing through this world, to wipe your tears or to support you when you are falling.
Loneliness is miserable, is destructive, it eats you from the inside, little by little until all your doubts overwhelm you.
You reach the end, and you sit there, at the edge of the abyss, trying to look beyond the darkness down there, and you can't decipher anything; you are scared and you are crying and wish for someone to put his arms around you and whisper in your ear that everything is going to be fine... but you don't feel strong arms embracing you... you don't feel anything so you close your eyes, tears coursing down your face; and you fall...

[photo: www.muhabire.blogcu.com/2260205]

I love rain. Pure and simple...
You close your eyes and you can feel the raindrops on your skin, running down your cheeks, falling on your lips, tracing the contours of your face. It's refreshing, it's a way of releasing everything you keep bottled up inside of you, it makes you more calm, more peaceful. It's almost like you have been screaming for the last hour from the top of a hill. Rain has a cleansing effect on your body. Like all your mistakes are washed away, leaving behind a new you, a better you.
Have you ever walked through a park after it had just rained? Have you ever breathed in the air? Could you feel it? It is like a new begging, a new start in life, a new chance to do better, to become something.
You're free...For a few seconds, minutes, moments you are loose and disconnected from all the problems in the world, from all your problems.
Breathe in deep and then come back to the cruel reality, 'cause the sun is coming back from behind a cloud. The dream is over...for now.

[photo: www.s299.photobucket.com/albums/mm320/amyannettecisse/?action=view&current=fantasy-6.jpg]

I was sitting with a friend on the pavement at one in the morning, when he started talking about this toys that we used to play with when we were children: a gun with small colorful balls as ammunition. And then I had this flashback, with me standing in front of a fence and talking with a childhood friend. We were neighbors at my grandmother's house and we used to play together. Ever since he moved next door, I remember wishing we could spend more time with each other. I was so shy back then and didn't have the courage to go and play with him, and on the rare occasions when we did, it was the best time I ever had.
He died six years later, when I was about twelve or thirteen, after 3 years of paralysis. The last time I saw him, we were playing cards in his room, he was paralyzed on the left side of his body and was holding his cards with his right hand.
At the funeral, I didn't have the strength to see him lying in the coffin. In a way it is better to remember him the way he was.
On the other hand, I will always regret sitting alone in my room, because I didn't have the guts to ask his mother if he wanted to play with me.

For an old friend, I miss you...

[photo: www.flickr.com/photos/meervahl/2160340686/]

I am conscious of the fact that we are in the middle of a hot Summer day right now, but as my best friend told me the other day, when I might have mentioned that I am knitting a scarf, I am a little bit crazy; but I can't remember exactly...
In hope for a cold winter day I started reminiscing my fist cold season spent in Bucharest. And the conclusion that I reached after 3 months in hell is that this city is the worst place to be in when it snows. It's dirty and muddy and sinister. You leave the comfort of your warm home for a scenery that creates repulsion. When you look down, it's dirty, the snow is stained, it's dark from all the dirt, it's already half melted(but not enough to not be there) and full of footprints and paw prints. It's dark and ugly and slippery.
If you look up, you are greeted with bare trees, no leaves, no life; they seem to want to touch a sky that's gray and dark and clouded.
You left your home for this sight that is sad and pitiful, you left that warmth to be shoved, sworn at, pushed, ambushed, to fall, to get dirty; for the smells and for the noises.
You wish you could be on an isolated land, where the snow is untouched, pure and white, where there is no mud or dirt. You want to make snow angels and look at a white and luminous sky that reminds you of a long forgotten childhood, with a pine forest in the background that is neither bare nor lifeless and a small house, a home that has smoke coming out of it's chimney. Then it starts snowing slow and pure and everything is quiet and perfect.
And then a car honks at you to move, because its passengers are in a hurry. And you do just that, because you have to face rush hour at the subway, and to get to college on time, in a desolated Bucharest.

[photo: www.jacketflap.com/megablog/index.asp?blogid=568]

How much time do we waste waiting for someone to show up or for something to happen?! Does anyone even know anymore?
We wait in long endless lines to buy things, to get the best product or the cheapest one. We wait for the weather to clear out so we can leave the house, we wait for the phone to ring, for him to call, for time to pass, so we can watch something or go somewhere. We are in a continuous wait for the next moment and the next and the next, because it would hopefully bring something new, something better, anything that will break the habit, the pattern, the endless circle in which we all got so wrapped up. We are in hope for a better tomorrow, a tomorrow that may never come, and probably never will, because while we are sitting here expecting ... what?, we don't even know ourselves anymore; time flies by, the present is always wasted waiting...for a change.

[photo: www.jacketflap.com/megablog/index.asp?blogid=568]

Do you remember when we were children and used to blow dandelions?
They would fly around us in a mesmerizing dance... you could close your eyes and imagine yourself being carried away by the wind, just like them, carefree. They were so delicate. I always saw them as images of hope. Hope in that last seed that would not go away, no matter how hard you tried.

[photo: www.lightnightrains.blogspot.com/2007/10/illustration-friday-open.html]

As a little girl I thought of blue butterflies and pink roses, the time has passed fast, mostly without me noticing it and the butterflies transformed into nymphs that haven't yet undergone the final metamorphosis. In the end, the result will be an adult with lost childhood dreams, a bitter-sweet taste for everything past and an inclination for white tulips and red poppies.

[photo: www.brushpaintingcircle.com/greeting_cards/02_Singles/blue_butterfly.jpg]

My status image is from: www.majeakann.wordpress.com/2008/01/31/dragons-fly-like-me/.