Seasoning this mundane, humdrum existence with food, travel, and the written word.

I don’t write because I want to share what I’m feeling, or want to say something. I write because I want to let people know they aren’t alone in their feelings. Literature breeds inclusivity, that we’re all more connected than we realize. Should we all confess our sins to one another, wouldn’t we all be guilty of the same thing? If we were to play connect the dots with the agonies of each other, wouldn’t we all drape the same gossamer muslin? No artist needs a degree, no art needs validation. The world is her/his own intrinsic validation, in it’s brooding tranquility. I write because these are the stories of our lives, but it’s you who holds the pen. Rewrite those previous scribbles until they start making sense, and fill those empty pages right. And once you’ve turned that last page, and the hardbound inherently collapses - I hope you’ve made the universe’s best discoveries of all, YOU. 

She was love caught on fire. She was a mermaid who wasn’t afraid of deep waters, only of shallow living. She was stardust wrapped in mundanity. She was fine art in a world full of imitations. She had her own gravity that pulled him in, he was bewitched. Life would never be the same, he knew. Unfortunately, reality had its own grand scheme. He realized she deserved more, he was never going to be enough. He felt ordinary. “…but I’ll always only want you,” she whispered. His silence was deafening. A single tear rolls down her cheeks as he walks away, she doesn’t even reach to stop it. He turns around for one last look, her gaze lowered.

              Anais painfully glanced down at her bleeding fingers, now forming a crimson pool on the ground below threatening to engulf her battered toes. She had held on far too long. Her reflection in the dancing ruby puddle ricocheted back mockingly, she had fooled herself yet again. He sold dreams for a living, and Anais was desperately looking for one. She bought it with her soul, made a deal with the darkness. The price she had to pay. These streets of forever, desires in the eyes s he sees; but not the desire she wishes from him, for her. She collapsed under the weight of the pictures she drew in her head, of him and her; he was only an imposter, a cheap knock-off. ‘…Anais,’ she heard her fairy godmother call, Anais huddled closer to her and muttered ‘…tell me sweet lies, hide the pain of real.’ Her fairy godmother straightened Anais’ crown, ‘..sing, little songbird, sing. Stand tall as lions. Constellations light up night after night. Don’t let the coldness of the world f