Anais Nin: The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

Yeah, I know. It's been awhile since I've posted something here.  *blows the dust off the blog space*

To what do I owe this pleasure?
It's been a while since you've dropped in.
Do you still like squishing your toes in the mud and collecting seashells?
Do you miss the way the wind blew through your hair as your ran from the moon?

There was a time when you danced around the house
While singing at the top of your lungs.
You made up stories far away lands.
And looked for pictures in the clouds.

As days and months and years go past
Our lives demand we change.
We grow, develop and hopefully evolve.
But should some essence of our young spirits remain?

We should take some time to remember ourselves --
Who we used to be in our purest form.
Before those filters of cynicism, prejudice, politics and materialism entered into our psyches.
And become reacquainted with the best part of ourselves.

“I think when one has been angry for a very long time one gets used to it. And it becomes comfortable like old leather. And finally it becomes so familiar one can't ever remember feeling any other way.”

Heart felt words fall on deaf ears

While cheap rhetoric fuels the Nation

Skilled charletons weave screens of smoke

And tell lofty lies.

They control the gulliable by catering to their fears

And feeding their prejudices.

Hysteria rules the day

Much like the last days of Rome.

A cool breeze blows through my hair making it dance around my face.

I smile and take a deep breath

I breathe in the cool, crisp air and I know there's no place I'd rather be today.

 

Even through the the clouds and mist

The City of Roses is beautiful!

Illuminated by the smiles of loved ones I haven't seen

For a few cycles of the moon.