Cera una volta, una storia d’amore….

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9:15pm. Night has yet to throw its cloak of darkness down. And, since I prefer the darkness, this is not suitable attire for me. Between 5:30am and 10:00pm tranquility eludes: too much societal interaction that overloads the senses.




In the stillness of the wee hours when dusk sprinkles down and the sky is alight with fairy dust sparkling and twinkling from the heavens, I come across myself. The house is silent and sanctions me to hear the words in my head. Words that entwine another dimension where time is of no consequence and I am whom I am meant to be.

This ‘day’ life is the waking dream: the going-through-the-motions life, though it is a wondrous one. But for a few hours, in the darkness and silence of this house, I live the life of my purpose.

Words are scattered across a blank page and assemble in a cohesive semblance of order that create ‘someone else’, that someone else whom, during the light of day, anxiously waits to exhale.

And now, my friends, I am being summoned. Summoned by the words that create other persons and other places. I am late. I must hurry.

"It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it."
~Oscar Wilde

*Night Becomes Her - Jim Worrall
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