Marwe.

The language of mystery resides in a house, nearby the river where lost stories swim.
This language is told by a young girl. For many centuries she had lived in this house nearby the river; her dwelling an array of pots and pans, wooden sticks small and large; cooking equipment was settled above a fire and cotton, wool and hemp scattered themselves on the ground, on the walls and in the air. This young girl had created her reality and had spun it around until everything had it’s place, it’s time to be used. She slept in-between her objects as if she was their sister and time nor any other excessive power could make her forget about the peace she found in her heart. Her house was made out of fabric that the trees gave her; to caress the love she had for memories. Every night she would listen to the darkness outside, remember the times when childness and song grew up to be silent words. Thinking of all the small smiles, dancing upon the windows of lost souls.
during the day she was busy, caring for the landscape her feelings gave her. For nature provided when gentleness came.
Her name is Marwe.
Whenever you have a question about how life is supposed to be, you can look in her eyes and find wisdom where knowledge used to be.

Together with her I found collective connectness to the surprises that we experience every day, laying it out in the light of craziness and the games that made us young again.

we would look, act and touch upon the grounds of celebration.
Life was captured in fragments of realization that we were the same, Forgotten a moment before, only to be remembered as newly fresh feelings; To hide not the freshness of the waves, the crispiness of fallen leaves and the tingling of discovery.

Sometimes it will make you afraid:
“not knowing the steps that you will take" but I hope one day
Marwe will come and play with you.
Maybe even invite you

To listen to the silence of your own heartbeat
or to collect hidden wonders, scattered on the grounds.
or just drink tea, with the words of peace hanging from the leaves.

I guarantee that you would like it with her and maybe even you would cry with her
about the language of mystery laid out and understood
for you to give liberty to the bones that you carry
Marwe will be always there
in her house made out of fabric

to wait for you and find a home for the heart made of love
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Damla.

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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Sascha.

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 is 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.

Molli

 

Long ago and far away in a valley where a forest could expand from, a girl sat on her knees. Her dark brown curles falling past her face, into the water where she seemed to be lost in. Her eyes were the same glistening sparkling blue as the color of the river who had his source in the snowy mountains where he was born and he ended in numerous streams across the lands.

but let´s return to the girl sitting on a riverbend. Her name was Molli and she was crying. Nobody knew exactly how long ago Molli came to be in the forest but that was what she did. She talked with the foxes and the bears to ask how they slept and she danced and twirled in between branches of forgotten words.

The trees liked the childish entity that came and went with a voice as clear as a kitten who purs. The birds had a new singing partner. Molli knew every leaf, every broken twig of her new hometown. Her old one had pushed her away. Running over undulated mountains, stumbling over sheep that told her to come back home: This was one of the reasons why she cried, sitting on a riverbend.

And this was not the only time she sat there, no. You could ask every leaf, every fiber of energy in this forest and they would all tell you that Molli cried everyday. Dropping her tears in the tangled stream beneath her.

Ancient bramches hid this view from sight by covering it with their arms but this was what happened.

When Molli had no tears left she would dance and twirl again as if the world she had left behind was only visible for the river that received her tears.

As Molli came back to where she was supposed to be her tears travelled a different story. The tears that Molli shed were refreshed and reborn in the exploding patterns of how you do stuff. They travelled along currents that understood that sometims you cry because your alone but at the same time you remember that you love everyone so much. The tears multiplied the conciousness of all the drops in the streams they passed. Realizing that truth and pure beauty washes away the mask you wear, because sometimes you have to protect yourself against mothers and fathers who don´t speak about their problems. It grows bigger and bigger, as if tears are an amonis presence. It is just a matter of being at peace with the deluce and then it happens. A crack, an opening. A small trigger, born out of gratefulness which will end with burdens being lifted. Sometimes oceans exist in a moment of release and you know that it is good,

The tears of Molli travelled across large plains, sheltered by the the power of connexion. Into streams that ended up in the homes of people. Just, people, Who lived their lifes as they thought it was supposed to be.

These streams that came into their homes had absorbedall of Molli´s tears and deirby all of her thoughts. Molli´s tears became a symbol of childness and screaming runaways. When these people in these houses drank the water, the last footstep to cross the treshold of forgiveness could begin. These people could find that thoughts about dying and that life is to much for you are thoughts we all sharewith everybody

not everybody feels the same but beauty can arise and strike you, suddenly. As if the concrete wall you build around you heart has vanished and the tears of you dying mother can renew your capacity to love again. Molli, in her forest of untold wisdom was playing around with her imaginary friends, not knowing that she was the source of old wounds being healed by the breaths of exhausting humans. Yes. It is exhausting but it is still worth it in the end, even if you look like shit afterwards.

Molli was the girl of untold wisdom who had opened the lands too see grace once again.