Life is like a dream unnerved but stayed; a blossom met but forgotten; an idea relinquished however understood.
Life is neither set yet nor random; it exists as inspired content but not as the result of one simple calculation. We breathe where we breathe for there we have walked and though we have not always walked: sometimes we are placed.
Life is suffering, tragedy, heartache, unending pain and misery. It is joy, love, terrific excitement and debate, soul and purpose. Perhaps life is but a flower: the summer of our years
Do authors create worlds or do worlds create authors?
Where does a dream fly once dismissed? Am I to tremble before this question? Where do we go when we sleep?
And whom wakes the dreamer whom does not dream?
About the Creator
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The natural breath of writing
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