For a long time, I was of the traveling tribe, longing to experience life in vastly different corners of our world. As soon as I was old enough to escape my childhood town and fend for myself, I tried life on for size in San Francisco, Chamonix, Auckland, London, Hong Kong....settling down close to home... Continue Reading →
Why am I here? Is the universe kind? Is there a future for humanity? Is there a God? What is the story of my life?
If I can have just a glimpse // of what fuels this valley // It's what I came for // What I call out for // What echos back // What I miss most // When it's lost in the woods.
His corner of the world was one of concrete His soles raw from cold cobblestones (yet all he saw was shoes.) The answer to everyone's riddle is there: in his rags, his unkempt mane, his bruised and scarred arms.
Time will come for you, like all others. It will whisper that you, too, could run free. Your wings will spread, longing for purpose. You will fly skywards erratically, like the mayfly on a clear summer day. How I will miss you, my companions, as I roam these empty rooms.
Remembering every insult, every humiliation, each tiny wrongdoing, she twists. Turns her pillow over, fighting a wee-hour battle with her worthy opponent: Insomnia. But such forces as the one we know intimately, yields to no shadow master.
A thousand shattered pieces on a sticky lino floor sour, red liquid seeping into the worn rug's edges No. That's not me.
Last week, I had a bout with the flu. As I wrestled with fever, a throat that stung like a thousand needles and a splitting headache, I sunk into my pillows, willing this suffering to end. But instead, I decided to be still. I listened to my body, searched deep and found some hovering questions and anxieties in need of attention.
"Hurry up, there isn't much time left." I have lived half my life. My thirtieth decade is slowly drawing to a close and if I am very lucky, I have about the same time left as that which I have already lived. So, dear Youth, what have I done with Act 1?
I dream my stories. They are not mine. Stories make up the reward for me paying attention. I know that deep down, beyond the layers, no story is mine to keep. They are mine to share, so that they might be yours.