When do we get to the part where I get inspired by this wonder boy and my seriously bitchy attitude toward men is miraculously healed?
It hadn't ever been on the table. Commitment had never been an option. There was never any love.
Oh, my god, he thought, realizing why he had always felt negatively towards Eden. She reminds me of my mother. The thought made his throat close up tight. He mused about the day's events. What a ride. Edward had surprised him. The man had courage, co...
Oh, my god. My non-committal boyfriend, who I was just fucking this morning, that I want to spend the rest of my life with, is your Mr. Wonderful. He’s your ‘nice,’ mystery man. Jesus.
You are so sweet. This is unbelievable. Some schmo talks to you every two weeks, buys you a meal, during which he talks about himself, dry-humps you, touches your hand once and you think he smells like roses. Maybe he is a white knight on a steed, wh...
Leila dreamt that her Soul was on fire. It was not a nightmare. Shannon was in the dream. Shannon was telling her to wake up. She woke up, burning as if she had a fever, nearly soaking wet with sweat. Kevin was asleep beside her.
Everything was illuminated. Everything was connected. Everything was one. Everything was love.
I am a black bird, a Raven, I am Raven. I know and I am knowing—I know and see life and death, expansion and contraction and I do not shiver and cry—I am unafraid. I am Raven. I am black as liquid night with wings and my eyes are stars to see by....
I hope that I capture something in my work that is about the elusive, the magical and powerful and the transformative. The writing in itself is transformative for me.
Samantha reminds me of the difference between what is illusion and what is real. I am reminded whenever I forget that we choose our truth and whether to embrace it or not.
It is poetic and lyrical; words that spill forth like cool waters into the dusty dry rock bed of the Soul desiring love. It has been said that I’ve lived in the desert all my life and do not know what it means to be wet.
Life luscious wet life bereft of death, loss of empty shell minus absent of nothing exploding star cell amoeba sweet algae oxygen, hydrogen flowering in the vacuum of space and magnetic motion.
I am in the night of the stars. The moon is new and I see my way by focusing on the light given off by the Souls of the trees. The night air is thick and dark and sweet, like blueberries. It enters my nose and throat and ears to fill me up with its n...
I am a single note, a tone that peals in the wind. I am in the magic of the moment and then he returns, flowing toward me around the thick immense bark of the Sequoia.
I have found that a writer is formed not so much by their experiences but by the way in which they view and capture those experiences. Like vivid, rainbow metallic skin cells on the wings of a fragile butterfly, it is how you touch and reveal those i...
The writing in itself is transformative for me.
I have found that a writer is formed not so much by their experiences but by the way in which they view and capture those experiences.
This is your karma. You do not understand now, but you will understand later. The source of pain is within your own larger expression of being.
She held herself until the sobs of the child inside subsided entirely. I love you, she told herself. It will all be okay.
I write because I am a writer, not because I want to get anything out of it.
