Softly from the silence came an inner voice with a simple question, “What’s next?”
Her room was filled with the things from childhood. The little girly things a teenager holds onto as she transitions into becoming a young woman.
The fading sun softly outlined her form with a delicate glow. A solitary tear emerged in the corner of her eye.
Anger is like a hot coal that you throw at the object of your anger. You may or may not hit the object, but you will always get burned.
You simply cannot fully experience the Yamuna River flowing lazily past the Taj Mahal at sunset unless you are standing upon the white marble yourself.
Perhaps the Tuatha de Danann with their god-like powers once roamed these hills and maybe still do.
As his armies feasted on the horror that is war, conquering all that would stand in his way, he began to hear a faint and distant cry within...
... these are the same days in which the stories of the night sky have become lost and untold.
I’m healthy, still mostly lucid and feel that I have something yet to do.