Writer on the Oregon coast. Lover of nature, poetry, and coffee!
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I love to write about my travels, lovers + neuro-divergence. Thanks for your support!
The March of The Bells
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Like the strike of a match, the sky lit up brilliantly with violet—Her most cherished color. Of course, it was Ginger Lee's favorite time of day—especially in Lindsonton during the March of The Bells. The bells on her shoes would tap through the blue herb garden leading to the mossy stairs of the Brown House. The moon glowed yellow as it was full today and she let the light guide her. The smell of damp wood fueled her journey up the stairs until she reached the golden knob of the Brown Door. She knocked, and the door opened quietly. No questions asked—never at midnight during the March!
throughout time and space only one thing remains the same we cannot press pause
the more that time flies the more we try to hold it bottle it up tight
doesn't it make you mad?
Doesn't it make you mad? Doesn't it really aggravate your nerves knowing that you can't look at the sun when it's so breathtaking at this time in the morning? I want to stare. I want to longingly gaze at the sunrise-- watch the colors change and swirl around the sky. I want to watch the magic show and stand in awe as the clouds vanish in the blink of an eye. I want to watch the whole thing. I don't want to miss any part of the story. But I can't watch it because it hurts too much. Doesn't it make you mad that the sun blinds you?