Exploring existence through writing, art, and existing. Writer of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Friend of the inner child. Interrogator of the inner sheep. I stop to smell the flowers (and talk to them too).
Who the Inner Child Really Is, And Why you Should Start Listening to Them
…there are reveries so deep, reveries which help us descend so deeply within ourselves that they rid us of our history. They liberate us from our name. These solitudes of today return to the original solitudes. Those original solitudes, the childhood solitudes, leave indelible marks on certain souls. Their entire life is sensitized for poetic reverie which knows the price of solitude. Childhood knows unhappiness through men. In solitude, it can relax its aches. When the human world leaves him in peace, the child feels like a son of the cosmos. And thus, in his solitudes, from the moment he is master of his reveries, the child knows the happiness of dreaming which will later be the happiness of poets.”
The Dream Mage: Chapter One
Oliver’s twelfth birthday had indeed started off with a bang. He’d been fast asleep, and the sun had just crept up, when BAANG! Something or other came hurtling through his window, shattering its glass into a million glittering pieces that floated through the air. Oliver was in fact just dreaming about a pirate ship attacking his own with cannonballs, and judging by the loud THUD of whatever had come through his window, he nearly expected to find one lying there on his floor. Yet, when he finally removed the blankets from over his quivering head, he discovered something even more peculiar.
Night Owl Sixty-Nine
The clouds over Olympia had smothered the city all winter long, and I was beginning to suspect that sunshine and flowers would never exist again. The past four months had felt like one long, grey, silent movie, in which nothing much ever happened. Each morning the main character of the movie dragged his body out of bed, inched his way through his sparsely furnished home, cooked microwavable strawberry oatmeal with coffee, put on his headset to begin his customer service job, and before we knew it: the workday, and daylight, was over. On Saturdays our protagonist would pleasure himself in the morning and visit his favorite nearby coffeeshop in the afternoon. And on Sundays he went grocery shopping and made a casserole dinner, which would then be dived into seven equal portions, providing him dinners for the week. The movie was getting old.
The winter has always made me feel like I only half exist, and this winter was making me feel even ghostlier than usual. Summer had quickly transformed into Autumn, the cold magic of Halloween had come and gone in a flash, and the New Year was approaching like a speeding train. It was now the middle of winter, and I was spending my days floating from the kitchen to the living room couch, unemployed and unhopeful.