…the stories we tell

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….become real in more ways than I allow myself to imagine. Did he call me or was I conversing with him in chapter six of my book…and were I not to hear the phone ring am I hoping it does or does it lie mute against all my fervent prayers muttered in great angst to all my gods. Am I the vagabond living on skipped dreams or do I really show up from time to time in the rat race…do I often huddle down the rabbit hole in hopes of slinging sallies with the caterpillar or do I do that in every other piece of conversation…is Mckenzie my pup or am I just walking him for you… have we met here or then there on the white spaces of my notebook….will you be coming over for dinner or have I just set the table for one?

the best part of waking up..

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…is to watch the morning unfold, looking as inviting as buttered toast. The sun is out and someone in the apartment has decided to liven things up by playing the saxophone….it’s odd I always relate the sax to a moonless night. For a brief moment I think I hear the flutter of pigeons…getting breakfast I suppose? As for me I shall squander away the morning for its mine to give. Nothing beats the feeling of warm sun on your back and the spectacle called life.

where the echoes remain

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I collect memories like others do sea shells…and I house them in little jars of colored glass…and when the rain drops incessantly I sit and open my jars quite like I was looking for a cookie …what comes out are remnants of life pieced together in a manner that I like and believe..what is it they say about the whole being bigger than the sum of the parts? Sometimes just sometimes I wish the parts would take up a life of their own and create their very own story….like echoes in the dark.

between a memory and a dream

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The sky stood shy almost as if it be the muse posing for an unknown artist who has yet to create his masterpiece. And beyond, the trees cavorted in the sunshine …a beautiful play of light and shadows. The scattered leaves shuffled around like children on a merry go round, the waves indulgent…and for a moment I heard the sound of my own laughter …the one where I am ecstatically happy for no reason at all and I wondered if it was déjà vu or a memory of you but I must have been dreaming cause I do know you’ve always preferred Versace Eros to Paco Rabanne…

Romanticism and silver spoons

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you see me for who Iam …a mess in tales of vulnerabilities behind a carefully crafted facade of lightheartedness ….& you so very beautifully craft my story from the very depths of my despair making me believe in every word and just when the walls come crumbling down and I want to for the very first time …you hurry back into your world….teaching me a harsh lesson to never look back….and perhaps to believe that in this mediocre life at least the expectations were great