That was how a newspaper critic described Polina Semionova (ballet dancer).

If only life was like that: Poetry in motion. Set against the backdrop of a elaborately crafted string of words, line after beautiful line, pre-determined to come to a conclusion – dangling, tragic or happy, but beautiful no matter what.

Or is it the other way round? Poetry is actually captured stills of life. And it is exaggerated, decorated, polished to the point of fantasy, so when you read a nice piece of poetry or prose that strikes a chord somewhere within your soul you think “ahh what a beautiful way to express life” when actually no it’s all your mind playing tricks on you, life is dreary, routine, and poetry is just a way of cheating you into thinking there’s more to life then what’s here before your eyes.

Hmm. I smell angst, and I wonder where it’s from? I usually romanticise everything.

My inner cynic is spilling out today, I suppose.

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