They were small shoes Size three, at the most. Scraped with mud tearing at the corners soles weathered from hours in the unforgiving sun from the dust of the assembly ground dirty white, buckled shoes bathed in blood. Advertisements Continue reading Shoes
I sat there, forcing myself into that uncomfortable space. Putting my phone away, feeling that “incredible loneliness”, as Louis put it. Listening, really listening, to my despair.
That Crillon cake was perfect. And the tea too. It’s good to be able to feel it; that aloneness. You can almost hear them, those unhappy thoughts, wailing as they crawl inside. And all those shiny happy faces… are they looking at you, wondering what you’re doing? No, they’re living out their lives, just as you are. You’re the stranger in the window they see for a fleeting second.
A moment of sonder strikes you. You leave a note for the stranger who will take your seat. “To the person who sits here next: have a wonderful day.”
Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead. – Louisa May Alcott Dream Big. Always. Continue reading
It was cold. The sun a mere disk Of iridescent white; a moon against the morning sky No clouds. A funereal shroud Thrown afar, rooftop to rooftop Pigeons roosting on the satellite dishes Taking flight, twirling and swirling Crazed and confused. Eagles soaring; smooth and powerful, their outstretched wings Cutting clean the frigid air Knowing, with no sun; where to go. The pigeons don’t. They … Continue reading Winter Sun
One Sunday afternoon I settled on the couch, adamant not to budge until I had penned something note-worthy. A bag of chips by my side and surrounded with a legion of journals, I puttered around in the ostentatious hope that something would ‘inspire’ me to write. My concentration was broken by the sound of drumbeat outside. Ta ta ra ta ta ra tun tun tun… … Continue reading The Wandering Acrobats
Wildflowers bound the wayside Thistle flowers and forget-me-nots No one watched them. They grew Of their own accord. No one cared. They willed themselves Into existence. Tenders shoots peeping out Feeding on the morning dew And the fire to meet the sky. Continue reading Wildflowers
