Dublin’s in long beach on pine avenue

It as always been my consideration , of which I have tried, in my utmost ability, to live fully in reconcile with this very idea of righteous…and while I have fallen short, it has not been too many times, perhaps enough for me to beg for forgiveness as people out to. Perhaps, enough to beseech the fruitages of the spirit in consciousness of all sadness and not be this very life of torment that I shall ever choose for myself, nor have I ever chosen it. This is something, which to translate from the heart…to place into words with interpretation...how might one do so as not to be misunderstood…

Could there ever be another answer to here pleadings…she will never hope to believe as such. Would never be tempted with the idea of permanence past her own vivid dreams of constant, details flood her existence now, all the more frequent as the final day has grown hazy…there was never any question. Despair is not so much hoped, as expected. In times like these she will never seek or aspire to hope to more than slivers of happiness at a time…she begs for days when the idea of hope might be strung together, perhaps following something of love. Yet she will never be satisfied with anything less than that. It comes blinding and screaming, and becomes ever encompassing and she cannot see past the flood. There is no fury, not even the smallest passion to be found without love. She looks in his eyes as he declares their very own non-existence…and she knows, again, that she would not take back a single lived expression, neither expressed, spoken, screamed, or never understood. For her, it seems as if life might expire without this small shuttering fate that awaits her. She believes it has all been done wrong, in the very name and honor of fate, but what exactly this is to prove she would never be so bold as to guess. She was heard once declaring, in more than muzzled whispers, that she would have been given this Very sliver for the sake of calling out goodness. She longs, craves, begs for weakness. If only in this very instance, so that he might well see into her very soul…

그림자와 넋 사이 비밀에서는,

"Ni siquiera para decir adios al maldito amor de su vida"

Let his heart be seen but glimpses…I have yet to find a man in particular…I am so vain to confess with a heart larger than my own besides of blood. I must say my nearest exposure was in my brother Ryan. It seems to me that the world has become so eager to change all of life that was…and while it cannot continue as it was.. I feel ever so much, it will never again be so loving or kind as it was...but ever to exchange my words or blot out ideas seems somehow sacrificing. While anger and rage burn as never they have before. I crave the constant of love and goodness. And I am quite determined to walk in this light. Even as my inner feeling scream of deafening sounds of everything else.

gone people all awkward with their things

read

http://www.thenation.com/doc/20080407/zinn

maybe your soul rot from your very core and your flesh fall from your bones, i hope you are at least blessed enough not to believe in hell, my brother will live forever because he paid the ultimate price for any sin, which is death...you however, will be suffered to be devoured, while his soul has long since been redeemed and your memory is washed away into oblivion.

Eat at the grapevine…la verne ca on foothill blvd.

banksy graffiti & street artforum . cans festival 2008 .

I can’t believe in so many things, faith…I must, no more pixie dust. What is it faith and trust. Oh yes. Speeches and sermons, about with comfort and forgiveness and they have no hold, no lasting condition to change the world. Because we do not listen. Because we are not meek. It is weakness that we fear, when the meek are to inherit the earth. I am weak and envious. Envious all the more so of things that I do not possess any longer. Trust, patience, understanding, not in this order, randomly placed words that hold nothing except to the author. I do not want to proceed. I want to wallow and dissolve. But this, I cannot. Because he would not want it to be so. This i have to remember, but it seems so shallow a thing as mourning. Because he is saved, and I am the worrier of my life, of four little girls, again all alone. So selfish an idea of living my life without him. Of not having or seeing or touching or hugging or holding…or holding. My entire life without holding. How has this come to be expected of me. How can I. I cannot. I do not want to be strong. Not for anything. I have never wanted to be strong. And this again is on me, like an evil demon to torture my already rotting soul. But not rotted as I had thought it was, for it was perfectly content, but in my narrow selfish ways, I chose to be tortured, allowing what was fostered to rot away and fall off dead, again, leaving me hallow and then complain to the world that I had been robbed of any goodness.

...is starving, sickened, desperate. Restless. Sick. The sickness seeps in. no, it’s floods, unlike anything else. Nothing I’ve ever lived through. And I’ve lived through everything else, can help me. Can prepare one. Can release one. Can allow something to premiere as happiness. It’s sickness. And persevered drowning of the soul. My life and heart and spirit have been sucked out of my body. I laugh, because I forget, I forgot that it has actually occurred. Not because I cannot believe it. I cannot believe it. But because I cannot live with it having happened. I cannot. He is my harbor, my safety. My boy. He has always loved me, his entire life, he never asked or expected or needed anything. He gave everything of him, and he always loved me. Do you know how that feels, to have someone love you, unconditionally forever. Forever. And then they leave. They are taken. And you can’t dare to breathe or to be strong. Because you feel as if the life was sucked from your bones. But you are suffered to live still. And there is life that still needs you, and you have no idea how you are going to live it alone. How are you going to live it alone. And what happens the day that your youngest daughter doesn’t remember Ryan. What happens. When.

SAND and STONE

SAND and STONE
TWO FRIENDS WERE WALKING THROUGH THE DESERT. DURING SOME POINT OF THE JOURNEY, THEY HAD AN ARGUMENT; AND ONE FRIEND SLAPPED THE OTHER ONE IN THE FACE. THE ONE WHO GOT SLAPPED WAS HURT, BUT WITHOUT SAYING ANYTHING, WROTE IN THE SAND: TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SLAPPED ME IN THE FACE. THEY KEPT ON WALKING, UNTIL THEY FOUND AN OASIS, WHERE THEY DECIDED TO TAKE A BATH THE ONE WHO HAD BEEN SLAPPED GOT STUCK IN THE MIRE AND STARTED DROWNING, BUT THE FRIEND SAVED HIM. AFTER HE RECOVERED FROM THE NEAR DROWNING, HE WROTE ON A STONE: "TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SAVED MY LIFE ". THE FRIEND WHO HAD SLAPPED AND SAVED HIS BEST FRIEND ASKED HIM, "AFTER I HURT YOU, YOU WROTE IN THE SAND AND NOW, YOU WRITE ON A STONE, WHY?" THE FRIEND REPLIED "WHEN SOMEONE HURTS US WE SHOULD WRITE IT DOWN IN SAND, WHERE WINDS OF FORGIVENESS CAN ERASE IT AWAY. BUT, WHEN SOMEONE DOES SOMETHING GOOD FOR US, WE MUST ENGRAVE IT IN STONE WHERE NO WIND CAN EVER ERASE IT." LEARN TO WRITE YOUR HURTS IN THE SAND AND TO CARVE YOUR BENEFITS IN STONE. THEY SAY IT TAKES A MINUTE TO FIND A SPECIAL PERSON, AN HOUR TO APPRECIATE THEM, A DAY TO LOVE THEM, BUT THEN AN ENTIRE LIFE TO FORGET THEM. TAKE THE TIME TO LIVE! DO NOT VALUE THE THINGS YOU HAVE IN YOUR LIFE, BUT VALUE WHO YOU HAVE IN YOUR LIFE ! -posted by Ryan Aron Casey

Como le puede ayudar yo

ol sun shi

Quite possibly...you had never known it would be this way...One where love ceases to need and challenges are left unstruggled. There is no new to replace the old ways. I heard today, that penguins mate for life. Sun hawks and penguins? Then it follows that humans do not. Not what is honest pure, integral, or even ever just. By ever I mean to imply a sort of always. The only kind that can exist when in fact all humans are destined to die, and forever, so far, exists only in faith. Why do you give up part of your soul for this tiny interpretation of intimacy when you want his heart. It is not yours, even in this tiny moment, you do not dare to fool yourself. And would you ever to be happy if it were. Because this would not be enough. Suffocation by love could only be satisfying if it were ecliptic. Ellipses. Why has no one tried to sell you a story on ellipses. You see things to their end, but you close your eyes. They spread the country: flee you rotten fool, for I would swallow you whole and mar your bones with my heart. And then you will ask after me, to who stands before you now, and ask where I have gone…you tore at my very living soul until it was dead at your feet, and you ask after me…they tell you to look at the moon. How many scenes of moons and Moroccan palaces have you heard now? Go and dazzle your very blood. You are flooded with insignificant memories that lead to the devastation that came inevitably, yet if these things were to have been changed, if they were not to have been compromised, if they had not to been altered, then it might not have been devastation and decay as it is now. You made your mother flush- you were just eight then. She was to stay home after the baby. This was to be your new career. Then it would have ended differently perhaps, is it always the same end, or is rotten demise not at all bad, if that is where you are to end up. Is it all really, quite actually, what you were intended to do, and the path that we take to get there, sometimes however easy, clear, yet ignored because these struggles would be too painful for us to actually contemplate an end to such ridiculous things. We bother with faith because it leads us directly to salvation. A complete and utter love that can only be properly described by someone who has actually attained it. No spoken words for ten days, he thinks that it would be very good for me. Siddhartha and the alchemist would accompany you on these trips, I’m sure. Right. Then why did you write, and why have you not spoken of it. And what was it meant for. Comfort perhaps? This is how I will interpret the letters. How very kind, at the most appropriate point when encouragement could only be taken kindly, not untoward. My very kind friend believes that I should not talk ill of myself, even of my palms….it is gone. you did not look up, your courage is unspoken, and you believe that he will know this, that a shroud of gorgeous desirable 'something' must surround you and he will therefore know? i am sorry, i could not even save myself. silly silly girl has grown wrinkled and warn. you are to meet him this year. it being the very last of your years in your twenties. he will be ethnic and you will not at first think of him, and he will love you until the end of your days...

hi. good morning actually. i have just noticed, after so very much desiring to indulge in the expressions of your many faces, that i cannot see them. you took your page, your words, the silly pretense of a presence away. i suppose, they are not my pictures, why should this be offending or madenning, not to say that they are either, but i feel as though, you are cutting me off from the knowledge of you. and it sickens me. it sickens me.

i know that i need to. i am going to pray Serena, for the humility that i used to have, the goodness that used to be in me. it seems so very long ago, and so unattainable, the peace that i once had. even as an adult, even in miserable circumstances, i still had that. whatever it was. my faith is gone.

dribble...
This is an altruistic rendering of the sum of life, from a purely emotional stand point, which would therefore, from any intellectual view, render it meaningless, contrite, self-absorbed, and of course, grossly negligent of all other aspects that might hold some semblance to true purpose, honesty and ... then there is no such sense of altruistic, then is there? This shall serve only as a medium in which I speak frankly to no one in particular of the actual occurrences and there effect on the soundness of character. in consideration to nothing. I have no complete thoughts to string together to create anything massive or integral. it is mere dribble of words that linger in my mind that must be released. i wish to relay something of honestly, perhaps one day when i am honest. when i know that i live my life with something that resembles the moral scruples i once had hold of. the paper. yes, my paper looks very bad indeed. and you believe that...these creatures could not have come from the same world as I. get away from me, these disgusting things have suffered me long enough. there. i am done.

the less helpful mindless chatter of which to rid myself of has exposed itself to be uncontinuous and perhaps grammatically challenged verses that have absolutely no purpose in being read...
…Has ever since been so completely humiliated and shamed by the words and slanders of others as to almost become immune to such pretense as would have previously dismayed and appalled even the strongest of individuals, where by, I have continued on the precipitous task of continuing in with my previously devised plan of lofty and fully thought out happiness, is the word in which I choose to refer to the joys that are the purpose of all carefully laid out endeavors of recent determination, to the point of exhaustion. And while others might not see this as an enlightened path, of which shall hold any, let alone, perhaps a regard enough in which to continue, it is actually, within this unlimited world, it is in fact the very idea of such opposition in which lends to fuel the fever of which I am now currently disposed. For I do have inside this body of mine, a brain that has fed itself along with countless other loves and experiences for which it has now come to be in me. And in this way, I have helped myself to design the very conquerable task at hand, by which I shall continue, either until the end of my days, or until some new and more convincing plan is lay before me, in which to alter the first and original plan to its conclusion.

i had never seen sandstone...

I will write tomorrow for I am exhausted today.
I remember the woman who stood up to describe her occupation…it was listed on the application as sprayer. With a word of titles and social status & judgments I had thought it a relief to have none. She described brushing, tearing and then cussed. I liked her and planned a good opinon of her until she spoke one word. I changed my mind. I have here once lived in a place. I traveled on a road I had seen thousands of times before and found freida place. Only it was spelled frieda. Only I had never noticed it in either context. I past humdingers, and I laughed. I thought of all the experiences that fit that word. I past the house where Jesus lives, and found an abandoned Spanish monastery with a wall made of bougainvillea that climbed up the eucalyptus. This house is to be my home. The cherry blossoms are in blom again and have since recovered from a near slaughter. I misread the freckles…or maybe I did not, and all of the curses were to lead me to where I am going. Or maybe they were not curses at all, but blessings because they brought me to where I am now. I drive down this road, I have driven down so many times before. I pass the house I was destined to live in and the lights are all out. There is no life there. There is a curb I knew intimately for a few hours of my life. I wonder why there are smoke stacks coming from the top of rose hills…Wednesdays darlings born april 10th…delilahs darlings born april 17th…sovereign. The gentleman eyed my purchases and handled the books as priceless pieces. He commented on each carefully chosen title, and I could feel the beams from my soul rejoice and my mouth unable to contain my happiness at his praise, this person a stranger, and their high opinions so easily given to me. A woman called today looking for cogan books. I was sorry to have to be the one to disappoint her. I saw this figure, tall and dark. I recognize the sounds of footsteps immediately and the original alarm subsides and turns to warmth. It is my father. Because your heart is bid goodnight get swept off…shared sauce on fingertips…blessed blessed the words runs through my head so I will not forget. I remember the woman with a daughter who wore dora lightup shoes and did not own any English words. The words of Pablo Neruda are never as beautiful as when they are spoken in Spanish. But not my Spanish. The Spanish that you are born to…someone once called me probresita. Smudges are not controlled…but I love things that cannot be controlled. No. I love the beauty in things that are beautiful even when they are imperfect. Because they are imperfect. He will paint like van gogh. You brought my light. I wish that life was not fleeting and that love could not be lost and that courage could be taught. I wonder that I could not always see the beautiful things. Every great tradition… my soul breathes again. I will offers my thought deliberately. My fingers are stained with the color of earth. I need a proper inkwell…ujjahi breathe.

darling, i was still suffering from the bondage of a psychopathic ranting and demonstration that could only be properly understood, having been witness yourself, therefore conveying the full meaning of such disgusting splendor with each detail so carefully blurred with the next as to be left unable to diagnose a specific word or misinterpreted delirium that would front such traumatic events as these? unfortunately i am suffering still, if not endless and unwanted, at least anticipated, and for this very reason, the sickness that had me so trapped in my early life has seemed to return, and with it the curse, as before, of isolation....so, i bid you farewell in the trust that this letter will find you well, if not better than myself and that you are not caught with such dreadful exposures as these…and as i saw, what i think is goodbye, and i am not all the better for it....it is not something that i ever wanted to say to you...i have a further inclination to pain that i do not quite decipher…i did truly enjoy the talk of better things...

"...only because I yearn for it with every fiber of my being"

It has been some months since I’ve spoken to you last, and I do hope that this letter finds you well.
I have put off writing you for so long, that I was determined to start anew all over again, for the former writings are no longer significant. You see, I have seen that you were gone, but where and why, I can only assume. I hope and pray for all of the best in your life... I do, most sincerely wish you every happiness. And if that is not possible, perhaps, then I do hope that everything else in your life proves to be a blessing. (I think that I know that you live off your soul as I do) For this reason, I do wish to impart how much it meant that just one person had faith (in me), and that someone had such a goodness as you. You wrote to me once and asked after my smiles. I want you to know, those words meant so very much to me. It was an especially wonderful thing at exactly a time in my life when I had believed that I might not have had strength enough. I read of your life, and it made my sadness seem all the more meaningless, and particularly unnecessary. I could hardly believe your strength and kindness. The way that you lived your life, with your heart to choose your decisions, gave me strength enough. I do believe that the confidence of others in me, made me believe again, and helped the smiles come on more frequent and faster, than had I been left alone in all misery. I do not know of your station. I will not elude to your current feelings, for I do not know them. I just wanted to let you know that it was a very kind thing you did for me, and for my life. I think of you often and wish you well.

I have the increasing suspicion that I am in utter disrepair. No, that doesn’t even make sense…I Haven’t the slightest idea why I am here, there is no mode of expression, or condescending verse in which I was truly inspired by. I am restless, I cannot sleep. I feel the dear panging constantly, at the lives of others, and which I can do nothing about. It is not for me to do anything. But yet, still, I cannot sleep.

I spoke, how do I say this, I spoke of this feeling, of which I can hardly describe. It is something deep inside of me, that I have always yearned to be free of, of this, I had thought it would be rid, as soon as something occurred. Perhaps this is why, as I spoke, I said, that I feel as if I have always been waiting. I do not have my own direction. This is not completely true, I find my direction. There have been so many plans,
There is a lovely woman of which, I was blessed enough to know, possibly even blessed enough to be loved by. This woman was 92 years old. I think of this now, she has watched an untold number of movies. It was a strange thought, to compare myself with such a different story as mine. But I think of her often in these days. My mind wanders, and I cannot believe, oh my goodness, that I have been so awfully blind. I have felt this insatiable need…but there is nothing in this, no truth, no consistent suffering will end this desire. There is no constant.
There was a movie in which the mother died, one or two or several of these, are movies that we watch, every so often, as is our custom, my daughter, the second oldest, she will cry and be completely without consonance. I hold her, and tell her pretend stories of other screen plays or perhaps books that I owned at one time or another that tell the real life ‘authentic’ story of this, which ever is the production at the moment, event, in which watching this thing, tragic and unbearable thing, that has brought her to tears, ends. I tell her of the end of ice age, where the mother meets them at the bottom of the pass. There are several other stories, lies yes, that I have told in order to stop the tremendous number of tears, that are genuine and never ending, had the lies not been told. My oldest daughter asked me, just tonight, she asked me, what would happen if I died. I had never thought to ask my parents, but I do remember the fear. I would wake up every morning with my father, perhaps 4 in the morning. And then return to bed with my mother. If I did not say that I loved them before they left, I would be left with a knot in my stomach that would not go away. It was a disgusting feeling. I have put these fears into my children, or allowed them to be placed there. Or allowed them the opportunity to form the concept. I sit here, at two thirty in the morning, and worry about dying alone. I will for certain, this is a sickening habit that I have formed, where I pour my guts out in front of a screen, begging for the attention of someone that will never be able to give it. There is no death at the end of my story. Not yet, I will not allow it. I will not sit in misery while I eat alone, or watch an untold number of movies alone. Alone is a very good place, where I love myself, and can be noone but myself. My children love every single thing in me. There is no bad, or judgmental topic, or dorky dance. Or horrible note of which I scream the wrong words to their favorite song, which they despise. There is not a time when they are frustrated without any hesitation and beat me until my guts fall to pieces. I am done with all of this, there will be no further seeking or endless trauma of which I cannot recover.

I have this song, I made it up sometime during my childhood, although I do not recall the year, or how old I was, it went like this…I love my cousins, even though they are mean to me sometimes. This very endearing song, whether or not you think so, was a remarkable one, and completely heartfelt, and has been the source of many wonderful outbursts and giggles. It had a tune, although I might have to practice again to get the correct rhythm. if only there were away I could impart these lovely things to my children. Things like grannychicksprinkle, and the wonders of pillow people, I always wanted one, what was her name, window rattler, and how wonderful the hug of a dirty doll was. The lawn at 8842 holds secrets too of stripped ferns, and battered snails the infamous trap door, and of course the special area in which we polished magnolia leaves with our bike tires. What did we call the red things, they were something special only came at a certain time of year. We had curbs that were perfect for coasting, we had a secret garden which was a mini and less magical version of the one housed at atlantis park. Only it burned down in fourth grade, as I was forced to watch the hidden oasis from the blacktop. The term skate gracefully will be forever engrained in the mind as something completely embarrassing and only a select few will ever be honored to full understand the phrase. Thinking about it, enough said. Creating the most delicious mozzarella, regardless of how grainy the dirt or the ratio of water to dirt, which of course created the mozzarella, and we were never deterred by the fact that we did not know what mozzarella was. Having and believing in the bionic three was a power we could create with our id bracelets…and the more grand hidden passageways at dodger stadium followed by phillipes. The stockings always became itchy on the ride home…

i am writing not to complain, or scream of some ill begotten curse of which i can attest, only for the purpose of purging this…i am currently perplexed to the point of no end…and need to get this out before it dissolves before me once more, and i am left wondering at the nagging sensation which will not leave me be.
i have a void, own a void, i leave it alone and in what seems like forever it is almost gone. and it seems to go away, though i mean for it to leave all together, it does not go along with the curses. it is as if the ability to mend myself has gone from my very soul. i do not remember feeling so wasted. it is not as if i do not feel happiness. i do, so much so, this very life that i lead makes it impossible to be so very wasted, it does not leave me time to drown in any sort of sorrows, least of all my own. i am left with the inexplicable task of mending myself without warrant, honor, or vigilance. for it is quite possible that i no longer deserve to be mended. perhaps the last time was the very last time that i was to be whole, and i gave it away so suddenly that it might not be able to return. what am i speaking of, i hardly know.
i…cannot see any sort of release or time of which might allow me to be weak. i need this. i need to be weak. i yearn for this, and it leaves me feeling foolish and slight.
you saw a glimpse into my life, and i am not all the better for it. i am left shallow and haunted once again.
i do not mean to attest that i am left this hollow shell, i am not, most of my soul is rather plump. the hours and days are filled with the most beautiful laughter that i am not at all given the time to be miserable as often as i would like. It arises now, only on occasion, and leaves to quickly to be contemplated further, it's outline is so very clear when it is time to consider it again, and however small the sliver, it will not stand too long without being acknowledged before it seeps into the rest of me. maybe it has always been there, but i have been much too busy with other things than to stop and ever examine myself. i was told once, how was it said, that my touch, felt like i had yearned for it my entire life. i am not quoting, perhaps stating it in the way i would like it to have meant. this person might have been the only one that ever noticed this slight piece of me. that feeling has never gone away. was it a promise, i do not know, but somewhere someone put it into my heart that i was to be loved until the end of my days…it is fleeting and in concise.

deer prinses jeena and uncl nic cen you giis come rvr at my haws and play wihc my famu and reey rembr to sawnd awt the wrdst and love skai.

i spoke to a man today (if you ever read this, i am sorry for discussing what is not mine to tell, but it felt so tragic a thing to not) he reminded me of tents made of trampolines and blankets, all mismatched chairs, and I had forgotten. i did not know his voice, it was not the same those ten or more years ago. and when i knew him he was a boy, secretly my first kiss. the only person that ive ever met with such a name, still to this day. i asked of the family that i once knew, almost as much as my own. his father died some five years ago. he died. those days, in those days, a quarter and the sight of a baby chick were all that made one happy. the corner feed store, is it still there, and a lost and forgotten city that most of the world does not know to exist. do you remember the dalmation puppies, i had begged for one to no avail. i spoke to him some few minutes before my father came to my door. it was very strange, he gave me a half hug, with a strange irregular tapping, which istrongly ridiculed, and then forced him to give me a real hug. i love that he has to bend to hug my properly. always did. how many times has he held me until ive felt whole since i was born. i love my father, and i have been such a rotten daughter. then later i read a passage from a store bought cutout, and it read, "never be the first one to let go" i have always felt this, but never placed words to the feeling. when he left, i watched him leave, as is our custom, until he is no longer in my sight. i wonder how many times i have left at this tradition. we had dinner together, how strange an idea after all that has happened between us, after so many years, she was just eighty when we met, and we are here, yakimmandu and all, but she does not sit with us, when i saw her, i could barely contain myself, and i know it is evil guilt that disturbes me, i knew that she called after me and i never came. she knows my face, and i am again content with guilt that i am allowed this time to see her again, i sat in a hospital, and heard family, what once was my family, speak of a dear woman, she now numbers ninety-two, but i do not think it long enough. they asked after black suits, and cried for sorry, and i am determined never to repeat such a horrid thing as this. she is breathing, if you can call it that, and i know that my daughters father will die again when it is all over. i am scared, for it is just recently that he came back from the dead. he does not hear my words, i tell him that she needs him to live, she needs to see all that he is, all that he came be, i give up, he once told me that he had specifically learnt how to drown out my voice, and he could hear everything else...everything except for my voice. this time, i do not cry to let him know that i love him. he sleeps, and i think that he forgets that we are not together. he looks at me in the way that used to be our custom. i wonder what he is dreaming of. i cannot feel right, and i realize in this moment, that the part of my heart, the whole part that loved him completely, is gone. i leave him alone. and he then eats the green mound of sugar frosting, that my second daughter calls a gum drop off of a cupcake that she made. i hope they will help keep him sane. my word document believes that i spelt that word wrong. sane. it is all that i can hope for him at the moment. i just heard araiya call him daddy, i wonder at the insanity that i have already caused my children. do not think me retched, because the world was never supposed to be this way, this was never supposed to be…i am not strong enough for any of this, my spirit falls, to all things selfish. i forget my earlier promise, and i absorb too much sir...

There are people…sometimes. I think. How very lucky I am. They are not meant to be there forever. Truly remarkable souls that touch your life. They know you. Not all inconsequential things as …But they know your soul & they blessed you enough to inspire you for the rest of your life. They know your smile and can cry for your pain. They bless you and wish your darling beautiful children happiness. And you know this comes from the most intimate expression of their heart…and again you know that you are blessed. You see they will never belong to you. But they will always love your soul. They will always see inside of you. Even without saying I love you. This will never leave. They tell you that you are a romantic realist, and you think what a lovely notion it would be to actually believe this true in yourself. They tell you that you have made your life art, and you know he will always love you, if not yours, at least your soul.