Stars fell from the sky when the fairytale of love was born
It's first cries shaped the wind that chased dreams, it's first adventure weaved itself into the mystery that excited discovery.
love crawled out of it's sanctuary and started to expand, to drape hope across the world, and there was this one girl, who build a home adorned with laughter. 
In it's stones she engraved the melodies the birds would sing. 
In it's bones she studied the paintings that danced and rushed through skin.
This girl was questioning everything.
She drew pictures out of memories and tended the sound of rippling family.

Her name was Damla. 
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Have you heard about the landscapes where paintings are made.
Some say that the girl who lived in a house not far away from these paintings decided one day that she wanted to paint.  Her grandmother who lived with her always talked about how, change can disrupt the beauty of doing things the old fashioned way. 
But let’s not talk about the speeches of an old woman, let us talk about the girl. For the beginning of these landscapes where paintings are made rests in the eyes of Sascha. That was her name.
She would look and listen to the horizons and appreciate how softly the hills would glide along in river streams. How trees would drape themselves across the scenery and how the clouds could rise above them.
How they could shape themselves into these fluffy white cuddly forms, to move within the sky and find gentleness in their caressment of air.
All these things that surrounded Sascha gradually became a movement of self-discovery, for a painting is made, only if the colors of the scenery matches the colors that blow inside of you.
Let me get this straight.
We can look endlessly to the stars but if you would like to become one, you would have to find that sparkle within you that shines bright in the night. Sascha knew this. That’s why she left her grandmother sitting in her armchair and began to discover the paintings hidden inside of her.
She looked at trees she passed, the valleys she left behind and the majesty of waterfalls. She even dove in the deepest lakes to extract the sunrays who were part of her soul.
The sun and rain felt like lovers, because Sascha looked at the paintings that they created and slowly fell in love with everything the world is made of: she dissolved in the stream of thoughts and vanished in the landscapes of dust.
Some say that it happened there, there where landscapes were made.
There it was where Sascha painted her name away. Where the colors of self-discovery seated themselves in her eyes and she began to make paintings about every story that took her breath on a journey of forgetfulness.

We have to be braze, strong and willful if we want to discover love. Look at Sascha and tell me, what are the stories you tell yourself? The pain that dwells inside your skin? What if you could free the pass ways of your veins and tell me that you are not afraid? Would the pain of being trapped not fade away if you follow the kindness of your name?
To discover the landscapes where your paintings are made.
I would wish that you sit next to Sascha one day, with your own patchwork of stories and you can realize that you can free, every story, to discover the colors within.

Maybe you might even meet the child who is the star in the night and you might be at peace, with the language of mystery laid out, and dreams, to dream about.