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The countdown

Waiting, I hang out with desires and fantasies.
Waiting, I wear the crown of dreams.
It contains the perfect me.

Anticipation hides –
so they say –
every joy’s best part.

I oppose, for I know it’s all a trim:
dreams bear no anchor.
Blood gushes through trials, cycles that are complete.

Waiting, I role-play with my sheeny crown
keeping my muses close
and their plots afar.



Love short stories and prose? This might be your lucky day, too!

My writers group is made up of eclectic individuals, all coming from diverse backgrounds. Some are experienced in the publishing game, and for some – like me, the youngest member – this is the very first time to see our name in print. The Anthology comprises four categories of emotion-packed stories: On the Island, On the Road, Off the Road and Inner Journeys… To learn more, visit our Amazon page (click-able link above)!

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How often do you peek over the fence?

Once the veil was lifted our fellowship began and, as I got to know the many facets of fear, I developed the ability to see it in others. In time, I came to peace with fright emerging in my stomach in the face of unknown. I recognized that it was a trademark of being human rather than what derived from the experience: fear keeps us moving forward.

Without freezing when my own anxiety draws closer to greet me, a sense of identity emerged and I discovered that I am amongst those who will never quite know who they are.

Some of us have anchored characters and some, like me, act as chameleons of experience. Still, every now and again I like to take a peek over my fence.

(Part IV – The End)

Read part I, part II and part III


A Symbolic Encounter

Just like existence itself, words and descriptions are elusive by nature. To be who we are and then let go, to float between immersing in it all and hiding from it all and back again, is an affair as real as it is invisible.

I saw it in a dark, dusty corner of a large hardware store filled with clutter and immediately was drawn into its world. This, for me, was common. Flower vases tell me stories that go far beyond their obvious purpose or the way they look. This one, in particular, was a factory produced squat wobbly shaped brown vase with abstract white drawings. But in spite of its commonness, my ears were in tune with the language it spoke.

I heard the story of a supporting actress, crucial to the plot yet always in someone’s shadow – a permanent bridesmaid to ever-changing brides, her appearance toned down even when glorious. As I listened to tales of loyalty and compassion, her tone rang of calmness. She knew she would once quietly fulfill her destiny nurturing others and witnessing many a spotlight.

Much about the character of reality escapes me. But carrying the bag in which she rested wrapped up in gravelly paper, I have never been more certain about being that vase myself.

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That thin thread
growing, and remaining
learning, and letting go
dreaming, and facing
containing, and denying
believing, and releasing
remembering, and clinging
understanding, and not knowing
existing, and laboring
no one can see
or hold on to.
But within its elusive frame
is all vitality of a life.

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People in our life give us what’s available to them in the moment, never more and never less. Considering reasons for that sparks imagination, for imagination’s sake, remaining weightless.

No creature dresses in sameness and consistency. Likewise, no one can present what’s not with them.

And that is okay.