An Author's Offering

Her eyelids are heavy; her vision is shaded, Lashes weighing down and out, but not quite closed. The residue of sleep builds up in the corners of her eyes. She wonders why, where did it come from? Sleep has eluded her for days, coming in fits and bursts. Worry of the future, lists of responsibilities stretching out in her mind of days to come, Distractions and thoughts like a cloud of gnats buzzing around her ears, never stopping. Would she ever find rest? Sleep is elusive prey; you can crouch in the shadows for hours and never catch it. It likes to play with the hunter, staying just in the line of sight, and just out of reach, Only to overcome the hunter as exhaustion runs them down. But slowly, oh so slowly, the hunter learns to trust, To let their guard down, just a little, To not crouch ready for the next attack, the next kill. And with trust filling the blood and spreading through the body, the muscles relax. And rest, though elusive in nature, makes its way to the

I don’t have a dream, except a dream of a dream. I have a hole instead: a hole or a pit, a vacuum that never fills up, and a thirst that is never satisfied. I look at my life through a mirror, the reflections speak to me in muffled voices, and I’m sinking down and down through the gloom, wishing my soul to sing, my essence to fly out, into the clear bright air under the sun. I have a dream to breathe, to fill my lungs and live But instead I I control my breathing and sleep, Sleep through this life and long to dream. But then… Along comes Hope and with Hope comes life, and I find it, or it finds me… And I breathe in deep, and as the air fills my lungs, I long to cry and shout, to sigh with relief, as I awake anew, from the dark, deep sleep, where I dreamed of dreaming a dream.

I look at the sea, and the sea looks at me. I dive into its arms and it buoys me up. I slide on the slippery seaweed and pebbles. I dance as the waves slap the water in time. I feel the spray in my face and shout to the sky. But I know to never let this relationship go too far... For if I go too deep, the water would swallow me whole.

Apologies for the lack of posts. I blame a long sinus infection, strained muscles in my back, and the fact that the doctor put my hurt foot in a boot. You know: all those happy cheerful times in summer... Anyway, here you go! A cliché is not authentic. It is not original or creative or often even helpful. Many talk in clichés to say things they do not really mean. But a cliché is not a lie simply because it is cliché. It does not pretend to be original; that is not the point. Its purpose is not to open the eyes of mankind to truths never found before. But still, that doesn’t make it a lie. In conversation, it can be used thoughtlessly, without feeling. It can be more of a comfort to the speaker than to the listener. But a cliché doesn’t pretend to be anything but what it is: a common, overused phrase or saying. But all this doesn’t make it a lie. A cliché is said too much because when it was first introduced, it meant something to those who heard it. Perhaps the origi

(The point is to be a little confused at the beginning... don't worry!) I’m a bunny in a breeze. I’m a frog in a frenzy. I’m a mole in a mountain. I’m a lion on a lawn. I’m as slippery as soap, and as stubborn as a sailor. I’m as listless as a lump, and as harried as a hamster. I’m a human in a pickle, looking for identity, lost in metaphor and riddle, searching for analogy. I find I’m both and neither…  everything and nothing… Until finally I decide: I’m not a character,  portrayal or example, I’m me: impossibly complex,  and truly unexplainable. 

We often describe this life as “fine,” “good,” and “same old same old,” when the truth is, it’s not. Often, we’re drowning in a sea of change, loss, hurt, confusion and loneliness.  Sometimes we’ve fallen so deep into a pit that we don’t see a way out. A rope was thrown down after us, our only hope, but often it seems no hope at all. It is slippery, and we can feel it slip through our fingers no matter how tight we hold on. We can barely keep hold of it, and salvation seems impossible. We are so deep underground we can’t even see the light of the opening above our heads. We’re weighted down by mud and dirt, and long for enough oxygen to really breath. We may begin to panic, or give up all together. But still, we manage to keep hold of that rope, the only way out. Maybe, it will eventually become dry enough to climb, or someone might even pull us up. Because if we let go of the rope, our hope, then we will never get out of the pit.

In honor of Independence Day in the U.S.: There once was a child born in Kansas,  living as centrally in the U.S. as can be, who loved the land of Dorothy and Todo,  but knew nothing of the world beyond the horizon they could see. ~~~~~ They asked their dad from Georgia,  “What is the country beyond the border?” The father responded, “Son, it's the land, of the American dream and entrepreneur, Where you raise your children on good American values, prepare them for the land of self-governance, where through hard-work and commitment, if had in abundance, they will be ready for self-independence. And most of all it’s the land of the brave, and along with that the land of the free, with stripes and stars flying in the sky, and hoping for better for you and for me." ~~~~~ But then the child went to their mother, and asked again the question of before, looking to the woman born in California, “What is the country beyond the

Have you ever felt it? That one feeling… that one explosion in your soul. It builds hot and wild in your chest, swirling about and around, faster than a hurricane. It stretches the limits of your heart, filling every inch of you, from the tips of your hair to the bottoms of your feet. It stretches your fingertips out, making you long to reach out and grasp something you could never touch. It is barely contained by the physical limitations of your body. It is like an untamed stallion: bucking, rearing, and devoid of all thought. All it has is the longing to be free, and to ride with unlimited strength under the sun, reaching beyond the horizon of the the impossible. And then your heart turns to wage war with itself. A giddy joy fills your body, making your feet and your heart both long to dance. And at the same time the explosion pricks your heart with the most terrible sorrow. You feel the overwhelming pressure of the tears pressing behind your eyes. But even as

Sorry it's been forever! Here we go: Emotion behind the words, behind the tunes, Behind the stories and melodies, Emotion, the feeling in our souls, in our hearts, in the places inside us no one can touch, Emotions lying dormant and hidden, Buried deep within the core of each of us, Exposed from behind the traffic and bustle, conversations and clashing, what would we find? Would we discover truth? Would we find beauty? Horror? Everything? Nothing? Or would we find the emotions we've known all along? Whatever I find, would the knowledge bless me or curse me? Regardless of revelations, what good would it do if I had no clashing or conversation, bustle or traffic, melody, story, tune or words with which to express it? As it is, I search for truth not only within myself, but also in this turbulent world around me.

This world, that is, the real world, is not the only world to exist. Other worlds, separate from our own, exist. Other worlds, realms, kingdoms, and alternate realities… they all exist. They rest inside the heads of the young children on the playground; they rest in our dreams; they rest in the imaginings of authors. Words become portals. Written, spoken, signed, translated, and any other form of words… they’re all portals. As the story unfolds, we step into the words. We allow the language to wrap around us and fill us up, transporting us across time, space, and the limits of reality. As I leaf through the pages of a book, I find my way to realities completely different, and yet so similar, to my own. The author picks up a quill, or a pen, or a keyboard, and does the same. You call my imaginings play-acting. I call it discovery. I call it exploring this world that is far bigger, much stranger, more mystical, and more wonderful than you can

A carpet is a remarkably versatile piece of a house. It’s a comfort to tired feet coming home after a long day. It’s another task for the homeowner, stuck with the work of vacuuming. It’s a cushion for the tumbling children, as they roughhouse their way through childhood. It’s a bed for the pet curled up by the fire. It can have many personalities: a solid color or a patterned design, light or dark, soft or coarse. It may be so familiar that you can pass over it easily in the night, or so new it may surprise your feet as you walk across it. For me, an old carpet is an old friend, and can play an even stranger role: a place for me to position my laptop and my body, and write. But for most, a carpet is so innocuous; they don’t even know it’s there.

Today, I flew, and then again… I didn’t. I sped through the air, crossing miles and miles of land and water as if it were nothing, as if it were a mere jaunt to a nearby town. But it wasn’t me . I was simply an observer of a plane, given the view the plane has, and the experience the plane went through, as it did the action of flying through the sky. I simply sat back, and enjoyed the ride… I felt the plane exert its strength, stirring and awakening deep within itself. Then, it moved. It started slow, but soon picked up speed, confident in its course. I gazed in awe as the standing rainwater began to stream past the windows, rippling over the panes in strange, writhing currents. The clouds had formed ranks low in the sky, blocking the path forward, but the plane flew straight, unflinching, determined to take its place in the sky. The night exerted its hold over me, causing me to yawn and lean back in my chair, resting. But a plane never sleeps. The dark pas

Tada! My book has a published TRAILER: You're not gonna want to miss this! And you thought trailers were just for movies... https://youtu.be/09IwqLi3AgI

For me, words are like a sweet fruit waiting to be plucked. In certain moments, the light glints off the brightly colored skin. The smell teases your nostrils and you can almost taste its sweet, delicious juice. But in many of these moments, you can't stop to pick it, because you have school, work, commitment... Life pulling at you every which way. But you can't wait too long. If you do, the color and smell of the fruit begin to fade, and the fruit sits less solidly in your hand. As you carry through and eat it, your tongue bothers your brain, and even as you lick your lips, you think the taste is slightly off. There's something... missing... lost in that past moment of inspiration. Until the next moment.

Hello any followers/viewers I might still have left! And welcome to any new visitors! I'm leaving the posts from child-me in case viewers are curious to know what I was like 9 years ago! I'm revamping this blog into a blog for my readers. News about my published works, and reviews will be posted here. Additionally, I will post small, lunch-break-sized writings for those of you who might not (at present) have time to read a novel! Welcome! And hope to enjoy diving into this experience with you!