I'm sending text to the network with the feeling reminds me of the feeling with which I'm sending to walk son. I am proud that he is already so independent, to go out into the world without me, but I still worry. After all, he is still weak. And also I often think that my lyrics are weak. But I love what I write. My little notes from the social networks similar to the herbarium of the senses: I collect him and very beautiful, and very simple leaves, but because they cherish the memory. The impressions and situations, about people. About the conclusions. Yet it is reminiscent of a photo album, where the lyrics photos of the moment, the way I see it.

I like to write about myself. But how about I read? I would like to write interesting certainly: for example, being able to put together a note on how to be creative, where to draw ideas on how to overcome the fear of the white sheet. But I never learned how to do all of this without effort.

I only know that my fear of the white sheet is not a blank sheet in front of the eyes and fear to speak out. This is the moment when you want to speak, but my head was like a white sheet. This is the state of "white sheet" in the head and frightening.

I know what to write, you need to read. And read good. I often find in the texts the tone of the authors, who are with me in this time period loved.

I also know that ideas are born in discussions, interest in each other, in caring dialogue. And ideas are born in freedom, freedom from so-called court, from choir hypothetical votes expressing disagreement with your text.

I'll tell you more about how I write. Maybe it will be idea for someone else.

·· so. About the white sheet.

I'm standing on the balcony and look at a white sheet of lawn beneath me. However, stop. Is he white? That someone broke up with new year fir paw. She lies there like a broken brush, fingers spread and leaving behind a touch of green paint of fighting crumbled pine needles. And in the middle corner you can see monotonous, golubiewski shadow round pits, pointillism night drops. Oh, the cracks running up to the side of thin twigs! – top view broke through the snow Bush. Funny bird turned the left and bottom edge of the white sheet is strictly on the edge. The sheet is not white. Mind you, it fills the delicate blue-purple tone. Petersburg cloudy dusk? My mood?

White sheet is not white. Be careful – you'll see.

·· earlier, I wrote about the fact that the importance of reading. Probably because I'm attentive to details, because the entire previous year I was fascinated by classical Japanese literature. Will tell you what I learned there and why.

in General, Japanese history culture amazing. For example, there was a time when good was considered beautiful and refined, to bypass all the other advantages. Love was born literally in a verse: because aristocrat was not available to the male gaze (sometimes even that the man couldn't see his lady even after the first night spent together). A woman's beauty was equal to her art of writing poetry. The more graceful they were, the more beautiful she was considered. And elegant writing needs to be poetic and calligraphic. The taste of the lady reflects her chosen to send the paper and the branch of the tree to which it was tied. A woman's mind noted, if she answered almost instantly.

Represent? Poetry flourished. And it is in those centuries, when Russia appeared the script (if pre-Christian writing was, of it was only the mention).

time Passed and the Golden age of Japanese culture gave way to the era of samurai, the cult of beauty – the cult of courage and devotion. But poetry blossomed even more, becoming available to commoners. Born haiku poems. They were writing and wandering monks, having nothing but old clothes and wooden bowls, and the peasants and the samurai. It was concise notes in a few images capture the essence of the moment. The skill of the poets and translators I felt when three lines transferred me to a hot July, in the chilly autumn forest, blooming in the mountains. Even more striking was the fact that scenes of nature had its own mood and carried the unspoken thought of something else.

Had a lot to learn.

for Example, in a small poem always lurks a hint of the time of year. Lark, herbs and dragonflies talking about summer, autumn hint of the cold rains and storms, the winter is deep with snow, spring... Oh, spring! It's not an easy mix.

I took note of this myself. In cycles of days, seasons, faces and States, there is something attractive. The sad charm of things, call it Japanese. And every day has its wonderful signs, even in the monotony.

I learned to be considerate of their feelings. The emotions are colors, is a range, there are so many shades that there are no words but to transfer them, but come to the aid of images of nature and enchanting things.

And the words studied to see authors. To look into their distant lives.

And so, if I want to be understood, you should try to show the life of their eyes.

·· the Desire to speak often stumbles over the questions:

- whether my opinion is being stated?

is It true?

- It is necessary for someone?

If to weigh their views on the scale is resting on another bowl all the many other beliefs that outweigh? Yours, if you add your own opinion credibility. Respect for yourself and others if you want, will help bring the bowls to equilibrium.

And if not, there is no confidence in yourself? Take. Those who trust you. When the hand does not rise to write for the public, I write to those who cares about and is interested in me. Write to those for whom my opinion matters. In a casual conversation and the words come freely. The approval of the concerned interlocutor encourages.

·· I also said that ideas are born in the freedom from the expectations and condemnation. I think I got carried away...

the Truth is that it makes sense to be ready and not miss a shot. First, do not equate disagreement with the rejection. Secondly, conviction – not defeat! In opposition with a downside, namely the possibility of victory and affirmation. Suppose that in a dispute born truth, but can be born of courage – the courage to say what you think.

And the courage to speak, when not, it seems, is born in silence. I am grateful silence for the appearance of these words and, it seems, is that the time for silence to return.

...My lyrics remind me of sheets from the herbarium of the senses. At first it seemed white. But I look at him. I wonder who else thought he was remarkable.