Life Is Accepting What Is And Working

Words Themselves Are Innocuous; It Is The Consensus That Gives Them True Power.

It's As If I've Arrived In A Place Where It's All Spirit And No Body -- An Overwhelming Sense Of Calm . . . I Actually Began To Feel Blessed.

I Don't Want To Write Without A Sense Of Drama, Without Passion, Or Without Both Eyes Open To The World Around Me.

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.

I Don't Believe That Life Is Supposed To Make You Feel Good, Or To Make You Feel Miserable Either. Life Is Just Supposed To Make You Feel.