The Warful Peace

When she screamed, he stopped and turned to look at them.

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“I am good for a while, maybe a little more. . . I’ll talk more, laugh more, tease more, flirt more, eat and sleep normally. But then something happens, like a switch turns off somewhere, maybe a nut gets loose or maybe a cloud gets over all the good ‘mores’ and all i am left with is the shadows, the darkness of my my mind. . .” There was something sad, pathetic, painful in her tone- a kind of Continue reading “The Warful Peace”

Tomorrow Comes Never

See, it would be impossible for us to continue living in this world if each of us knew exactly what fate had in store for us. So God in His mercy conceals the future from all His creatures, and reveals only the present. He hides from animals what men know, and

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What Does Happiness Feel Like?

The morning blush’d fiery red: Mary was found in Adulterous bed; earth groan’d beneath, and Heaven’s above trembled at discovery of love.

What does happiness feel like? She asks me. Like warmth, I say. So you can’t be happy when you’re cold? She looks confused. Like simplicity, I explain. Happiness isn’t ever hard? She asks. It isn’t ever complex? Like success, I try. Like achievement. Can’t you stay happy in the face of failure? She looks worried. Like softness, I say. Like gentleness. Like a tornado bursting through you, like a volcano erupting. Happiness, I say, feels like gladness to be alive. It feels like blanket forts and daisies and sunshine and rainstorms and old books and hidden book stores. But I’m struggling.

She opens her mouth. But no, that’s not it, I say.

What does happiness feel like? She asks, a slightly pathetic note in her question, something between despair and dumb incomprehension. Like being loved, I tell her, and she’s finally silent, weary of all those memories whispering in her skull. Like loving, I say, and being loved in return.

┬ęKenyanito.

The Red-roofed House

Everybody is an artist until he begins to learn; everybody becomes an artist after he has stopped learning
-taban lo liyong.

“The roof was painted red, sir. Many years of contact with hostile weather had stripped the paint of all its attractive qualities. Today, it looked thick and dirty, like diseased blood. Looking at it from a far one got the impression that

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Dear Mama

The deeds we do- the words we say
Into still air they seem to float;
We count them ever past-
But they shall last,
In the dread judgement, they
And we shall meet!

Dear mama,

I had found it increasingly difficult to penetrate his inscrutable face till it became eventually painful to summon even a minimum of emotions and tenderness in him. My eyes, heavy with grief and sorrow discerned nothing. Absolutely nothing mama. And my mind had become a white blank dazzling the eye like the sun at midday. You see, I was in that stage of exhaustion that comes from an accumulation of sleepless nights, heated, ceaseless, directionless thoughts- that stage in which a woman is

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Who art in Heaven

Cease not, your Highness, to remind me that I am made of so much beauty that i forgot when i decided that I am defined by the things I am not. . .

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More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of i believe ; wherefore, let thy voice rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life within the brain, if, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friend!
In such a world, your Highness, so thorny, and where none finds happiness unblighted; or, if found, without some thirsty sorrow at its side; cease not to remind me who i am. I am not my age, nor the size of clothes i wear. I am not my

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