sitting at home, i crave a home like never before.
tranistion leaves me walking exposed and unsettled and hidden until i find some covering.

cover my head and give me a home.

there she waits.

There are many doors. Each door is different. The first is painted red, the colour of a barn. The next is yellow, the colour of a mustard. The third door is unfinished oak. There is a spot worn away by many years of banging. The handle is loose from so much prying. Beyond that door, the thickest and least inviting, there is a warm breeze. It is almost as if the guest enters the beach. The following door is a Dutch door; the top half is always open. Beyond that, there a screen, and then just a stone gate that leads to a garden. In the garden there is a swing and an oak tree standing tall. Rose vines trace the gate. In the garden there sits a woman on a rocking chair. Her hair is gold and her eyes hold secret sorrows. She appears worn out and ready, both at the same time.

Each door requires a different skeleton key. This makes it difficult. She likes to watch them try to search inside her words. Her words always give a clue to the next entrance. She never inteded to have so many riddles, it only just happened this way. if happened after gate was first built. Riddles make games among friends. They increase in difficulty as the door increase in width. The red door is almost immovable. Sometimes, from loneliness, she calls out the answer to the first riddle. Too many thick doors cancel the sound.

There she waits.

she

she especially liked closing her eyes when she rode her bicycle, and opening them while she curled into fetal position under water tumbling in circles. she pictured her pores opening into an infinite number of holes, ready to absorb the world. she liked being the only one in a field of flowers. she liked imagining, and she liked listening to the same song on repeat, hoping to strike the initial chord of sorrow that told her as a human being she was meant to find something.

but, she found it difficult to look them in the eyes. there were thousands at this point. she thought it lonely to look at so many people and still be just one person. she found it difficult to always be searching.

she felt the loneliness in her bones, and so, naturally, she wanted to follow it. maybe its source would be its end. the loneliness was so familiar it was almost a comfort. it made her want the desert. it made her want the ocean.

i want to learn to write truth.

"do not tell me words are useless when written language has been the most poignant and timelessly powerful form of communication know to man." (unknown)

"You see I am trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across - not to just depict life—or criticize it—but to actually make it alive. So that when you have read something by me you actually experience the thing. You can't do this without putting in the bad and the ugly as well as what is beautiful. Because if it is all beautiful you can't believe in it." (hemingway)

"I really believe the addict-the sex or the drug addict-is closer to the deepest truth than the mere moralist. I think the addict is looking for the very best thing in some of the very worst places. He's looking for heaven; he's looking for a transcendence of self-consciousness and moral responsibility; he's looking for the state of mind that the saints in heaven have and the mystics have for brief moments on earth." (kreeft)

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” (hemingway)