I dream my painting and I paint my dream.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.

― Sylvia Plath

© Iva Borisova

Am I chasing dreams in circles?
One ends another starts
Beginning after the end
I fancy many faces
Each peculiar than other
To live so many lives
Each different than another
Can I swim in all the oceans?
Not all at once, but
Maybe one at a time.

Yes I crave all of it
Lights sounds visuals and touches
No strings of times and spaces
Across the length and breadth
Height thickness contrast and bright
All of it runs in circles
Concentric and conjoined
Can I mill around them all?
Not all at once, but
Maybe one at a time.
 

Who Designed It?

“What kind of idea are you? Are you the kind that compromises, does deals, accomodates itself to society, aims to find a niche, to survive; or are you the cussed, bloody-minded, ramrod-backed type of damnfool notion that would rather break than sway with the breeze? – The kind that will almost certainly, ninety-nine times out of hundred, be smashed to bits; but, the hundredth time, will change the world.”
― Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

Does really,
really this world conspires
against all your gut
against all that you hold dear

may be
sometimes

who designed it ?
where it came from ?
was it designed that way ?
or it became over the time
to coerce all in to
patterns and standards
from where it came?
all the diktats
all the rules and rates

can we really forget
what is dear to us
follow another being's path?
or we make a niche.