Somewhere between the clatter and the ache, she’d remembered: creation isn’t comfort. It’s a fight—with doubt, with time, with the fear that your voice doesn’t matter. But when the words come, when they really come, it’s a kind of birth.
…suddenly I am a father of a 1000 worlds daring to call me home…
The first time he left, the scent lingered for days. It curled around the doorframe, clung to the wool of her sweater, pressed itself into the pages of her books like a secret too heavy to keep. She opened all the windows, burned sage, scrubbed the floors until her knees ached—but sandalwood is stubborn. It does not leave just because you ask it to…
My face, a roadmap, each line a tale,
Of laughter, mishaps, and diets that fail.
Crow’s feet? No—smile extensions, dear,
Earned from bad jokes and too much beer.
My knees will creak like a haunted floor,
But I’ll still dance—just near the door.
But oh—what joy in the little things then,
Like finding my keys and my glasses again!
The librarian never decided if the Bible was true, but he knew this, it was the original fanfic.
A story about stories, where God’s the unreliable narrator, and we’re all ghostwriters adding footnotes in the margins.
He loved it not for answers, but for the audacity to claim it contained all of them, like a buffet where every dish is mystery meat…
KAWEESI:
But don’t you ever wonder, peering through life’s glass pane,
Who you would be, if fate rewrote the game?
If I could choose a fiction, a character to wear,
Whose story would I covet, whose burdens would I bear?
NABUKENYA:
(Snorts)
Covet burdens? You actors are a curious breed.
Give me a simple life, my bills are all I need
To worry over. This glamour, the lights, the make-believe,
It pays the rent, that’s all a sensible girl should conceive…
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DMT 