Writing. Musicking. Creating.

She writes songs and stories, essays and poetry, and pretends that she is a traveling bard in a faraway forgotten land. She draws her long bow over the taut steel strings of her German violin. She sings loudly and with abandon, and doesn't care if you stare. She runs her fingers over ivory, chasing the melodies out from the black and white keys.

She stands before the Mediterranean Sea and stares out at the steam thick upon the horizon. She marvels at the poetry to be found in the waves carrying dragons and mermaids who hide among the sea foam. She watches and dreams and loves but she doesn't always understand.

:: emilypan.com ::
:: deviantart ::
:: last.fm ::
:: facebook ::
:: air @ lj ::
:: shadowscapes ::

He who knows the ways of beasts and birds, who can distinguish them by song and cry, who knows the bright quicksilver life in streams, the course that the stars take through the sky, may never have laid hands to books, yet he is sharing wisdom with infinity. He who works with sensitive deft hands at any woodcraft, will absorb the rain, the sunlight and the starlight and the dew that entered in the making of its grain; he should grow tall and straight and clean and good who daily breathes the essences of wood. He who finds companionship in rocks, and comforts in the touch of vine and leaf, who climbs a hill for joy, and shouts a song, who loves the feel of wind, will know no grief; no loneliness that ever grows too great; for he will never be quite desolate. He shares, who is companioned long with these, all ancient wisdoms and philosophies.