Balance, they say, is a myth told by clocks with two hands. I’m bad at math but good at metaphors: today’s equation = (1 sunrise stolen by Zoom grids)
(3 stolen kisses from my daughter’s hair)
(7 urgent emails left to rot in drafts) = a sum that almost tastes like living…
~But upon approach she saw the truth~
It was just a shack, by the woodland.
But to her, it was more than that.
It was a symbol of their love,
And a place where they could be together.
~It was away from the eyes of man~
And shielded by the quiet of nature.
They could be themselves here, without judgment.
They could laugh and cry and dream together.
This was their Eden.
~She smiled~
“Eden,” she whispered.
And she knew that she had found her ideal home.
He thought he could replicate the traditions of his parents. He would cook the same foods, sing the same songs, and tell the same stories. But as the holidays went on, all he did was remind himself how far from home he had come.
The food didn’t taste the same without his mother’s touch. The songs didn’t sound the same without his father’s voice. And the stories didn’t feel the same without his siblings to laugh with.
The fire burns on,
the flames dance higher,
The stories of our lives,
they grow more clear.
We see the world through new eyes,
We see beauty in all things…
DMT 