Levity is Good for the Soul. Intelligence is good for the mind. This should soothe both!

Greetings, dear reader! Today thought I’d catch you up on some of Mister Tom Gauld’s latest and greatest. Please visit Tom’s website if you can and give him a little love. You won’t regret it!! ❤️

On the meantime, here are a few laughs.

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #comic #tomguald

2025-07-13 11:30:00

Only summer sounds like this

Summer is universally loved. In spite of the heat, there's a great charm in the sweat and the being of out of doors that no other time of year quite matches. As I walked out this afternoon to decompress, it struck me how I haven't taken a single moment to enjoy my summer.

Here's a little glimpse of that moment for me. Join me, won't you? Taste it.

Sorry about the audio. Wind noise is aggravating.

The bees this year are't quiet as robust. I think I might need to harvest some honey. Maybe an abundance is making them lazy? or their weak? Not sure. but probably about half of this activity right now.

2025-07-11 19:25:00 #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing

Path of a Heart

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

2025-07-22 12:00:00

Sometimes we are born again through the memories we left in cold rooms.

I was looking for my hat—the wide-brimmed one I wore when I was someone else, someone who drove through red dirt roads and squinted into the sun like it was a dare. The kind of hat required in Dust Meridian.

It had been missing for years. Maybe longer. I didn’t even know I was looking until I opened the refrigerator and there it was, perched beside a frosty beer and a carton of eggs.

Cold to the touch.

But not dead.

I blinked.

“What are you doing here?”

I wasn’t joking.

It felt like it owed me an explanation. It had disappeared ten years ago. I looked high and low, traveled and called everyone I knew, but it never materialized. I lamented its loss—the countless adventures we’d shared. It was practically part of my identity for nearly a quarter of a century.

The hat turned slowly—almost shy—and answered, but the words slipped sideways, as if the air between us was warped. I heard syllables like birdcalls, like eucalyptus leaves whispering in spirals.

Like a secret I knew once, but had since packed away with my passport and the smell of old firewood.

Still, I smiled. Not because I understood. But because something in me stirred—some flicker of a self I’d shelved. Not abandoned, exactly—just chilled for safekeeping.

I held it to my chest. It smelled faintly of sweat and eucalyptus, of rain that never came.

I considered putting it back in the fridge. Maybe it liked it there. Maybe it was hiding from the heat of a life half-lived.

But I didn’t.

I slipped it on, and for a moment, the kitchen spun into something vast the wood floor cracking into gravel, the hum of the refrigerator becoming cicadas in the trees.

And there I was.

There WE were.

Me, and the version of me that remembered what the wind felt like in wild, open places. The one who once drove toward the horizon with no map.

And no need for one.

'Dad's heart stopped after I said amen to a prayer'

At 11:44am Sunday November 9, 2025, the Conductor took his last breath. My friend, a minister of the Bible, watched his father pass away even as he said a benediction for him. It is heartbreaking and beautiful.

It was a 3 month long journey that resulted in the Conductor laying in a hospital bed for more than 30 days all told over the course of the illness.

I read recently that none of us truly become men until our fathers die. Dubious logic, but absolutely beautiful poetry. And in the generations of today, losing our fathers may be the thing that is needed to trigger the metamorphosis of maturity.

It is a hard passage if it's true. I think I'd prefer to be Peter Pan if it is.

The Conductor and his family have been in and around my life since childhood. His widow, the Queen of Swords, is among my closest friends. He was a vaguer component for decades but in the last 10 years has emerged as a clear cheerleader for this wolf, often telling me how much he appreciated everything I've done for and with his family.

He was a weird guy. One of our friends describes meeting him 30 years ago in a suit with no socks or shoes. Probably about the best and most succinct way of understanding this complex creature.

He was gone a lot from his family. Conductors have to conduct (trains as well as symphonies) and his route kept him on the road for days at a time. It provided a good living for his family, but the absence took it's toll emotionally.

I don't' think it was the job so much as it was the baggage of his life, but he struggled with addiction for decades before finally kicking the heavy stuff. Though he was hooked on tobacco until things got serious for him about 3 months ago.

He had a sister who struggled emotionally too. She passed away a few years ago from heart failure. The same thing that killed her brother. His sons are now rightly worried about their own life-pumps.

As I have watched him over my life, I have seen the Conductor through the eyes of his sons and wife, all close friends. They always hoped better for him and honored him as best they could in their own flawed ways. But he could never measure up to the standard the Bible holds out to those who hope for the approval of Jesus and His father.

And so I did, as righteous men often do, judge him. Inferior, broken, needing to change. But, in all the years I knew him, he remained absolutely confident that he would have a place in God's kingdom. As a man myself who feels unworthy of that role, I always found it eyebrow raising.

He would need to change this and that in order to yadda yadda. It's a life-long mantra of the Bible-thumper. In recent years, I've started to change my understanding and softened a lot. On others as well as myself—well somedays I'm less soft on myself, but trying. And I've started to see that there are good-hearted humans who just cannot meet that standard. Something in them is broken beyond repair and they are doing the best they can.

We all have demons. Some of us are better at cowing them than others.

Some of us have to hide under the bed, or behind a haze of chemical stupor in order to function. It isn't fair to say 'you aren't good enough' if you're doing the best you can. I think the Conductor was. I think I am.

Sometimes all you can do is limp through life.

In the end, he was a kind man, a good man—if flawed. In truth, I've known many 'better' men from a righteousness point of view who didn't have half the kindness or thoughtfulness. Maybe that's why we discuss Jesus we focus not on his righteousness, which no man could match, but rather, his goodness.

He was a guidepost. A point of consistency on the landscape of my existence that's gone now. It will be far worse for his wife and his sons, but the loss of that waypoint will effect us all.

It's terrible and sad. Another loss in a long line that will just continue until the Wolf breathes his last breath. And that's not the scary part; the last breath. The scary part is all the unknown between today and that moment.

Death is only a problem for the living.

Good night, Conductor. I'll keep waiting faithfully for my own line. I'll wait as best I can. Broken, tired and unworthy. Thank you for showing me that it's less about what others think of you and more about being honest with yourself. It's a weight I am still learning to carry.

Just like all of us.

#death #memorial #essay #writing #100daystooffset

originally published: 2025-11-10 15:00:00

Sometimes, love burns too brightly to be held in the palm.

A streak blurred across the night sky somewhere remote. A witness, if there was a witness (for only the crickets watched tonight), would describe it as a shooting star. Only much dimmer and slower.

The streak arched down in the dark, making a quiet thud as it impacted. There was a small puff of dust as whatever it was tumbled into the tall waving grass, carving out a long channel through the field.

The crickets grew silent long enough to feel safe again. In short order, the stalks regained their composure and stood erect enough for the wind to restore the channel and the object disappeared into the obscurity of a sea of green.

If the crickets could report an observation, it would be that there lay a small boy. He was curled up asleep, wearing a loose cotton shirt the color of faded sky, and linen trousers rolled at the cuffs, both worn thin. His feet were bare. There were little bits of dried stubble stuck in his blonde hair and dirt smudging his face.

He didn't seem hurt, only resting. And the crickets quickly lost interest and went back to singing their serenade into the windy night. And so he slept for many hours.

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was blurry darkness. The sounds of rustling grass was like the undeniable roar of a waterfall. The smell of young green stalks filled his nostrils and he could taste the soil.

His body ached, and he tried to remember what had happened, and how he came to be here sprawled on a windy summer night.

But, he had nothing.

He didn’t have nothing. Just not the right somethings.

Let’s see—what did he have?

A name —No. A place?—Blank. A purpose? A whisper of freedom, maybe.

What he did know was that, his head hurt, his body ached, he was a boy, and the grass, it smelled wonderful.

All things considered, not a terrible balance sheet. Not ideal, but not the worst.

He may not have felt great, but he did feel safe. He sat up. A mistake, his body let him know. But, it confirmed when his head peeked out of his little hide that he was in a swell of grasslands. The dim starlight didn’t illuminate much, but it was enough to sculpt hills of roiling fields far into the horizon.

The boy lay back and laid his arm across his forehead. A new sensation swelled in him: loneliness.

Yes, he could recall the distinct emptiness of being distant— one hidden from the world, though he longed for more.

A thin stream of a tear ran down the side of his face and into his ear. The cold wet tickled the tiny hairs and the sensation betrayed his sadness.

How strange, the boy thought, that something born of unhappiness can trigger the tiny joy of a tickle. Like a hug given in support, small kindness in the face of bitterness was a human remedy for so many things.

It made him smile, the little happiness. And with that thought, his mind relaxed and he drifted away to sleep.

In that timeless state, the boy dreamed. Of warmth and love and laughter. Hearths and food and small joys the absence of which had brought the tickling tear.

Eons passed before he opened his eyes again. Not blurry now. He could see the crisp sharp infinity of the night sky with precision. His head no longer ached and he felt tired, but rested.

The boy studied the stars for long minutes, enjoying how the night winds made the light bounce and twinkle in the atmosphere. They looked like a blanket of diamonds across the sky.

“Oh, stars,” the boy whispered into the wind “why does life sometimes leave us abandoned when we need companions but other times surrounded when all we wish is to be alone?”

Expecting the answer to be a hush and rustle of grass, he closed his eyes and inhaled to listen and decode what the wind whispered back.

When he heard a low grumbling voice, his eyes shot open.

“Life is ambivalent to your circumstance.” The growl said. “Everyone wants someone to blame, but most things just are.”

The boy looked around a little desperate. He thought he was all alone.

“Wh-who... who's there?” He stuttered, a little frightened.

It took a moment before the voice spoke again. The boy began to wonder if he had imagined it.

“Raise your eyes and you will see me.” The voice directed.

He was confused as he looked up and saw only the sky. Another moment and nothing. He leaned back on his elbow.

“Where?” He asked. “Are you invisible?”

“Many things are seen when one is patient.” The voice hummed.

The boy lay back again and looked at the sky for many minutes before he saw it. The star Aldebaran moved ever so slightly toward him and twinkled a little brighter.

He pointed excitedly. “Is that you?”

“Aaaaahhhh, good, good. You know how to see. To be patient. To wait is not a gift most hold.” The voice now had a mouth. The boy could see the shimmer of something shifting in the sky.

“Give me a moment, I will come to you.” It was warm and kind sounding.

Curious, the boy asked, “Are you a star?”

“Hmmmm—some would say I am a star, others a group. A few have called me a god.” The voice said this thoughtfully, as if seeking a way to explain. “The people I used to watch who lived where you rest tonight called me Tayamni Pa'. But not one has called me that in a long, long time. You, may call me Tayamni, or Tay if you prefer.”

As the boy watched, he could see now a dark mass warping with starlight. As it got closer and larger, he could begin to make out the faint edges of the shape. It looked like a large black—buffalo. Its eyes glowed a pale blue light and the tips of his horns, tail and hooves all twinkled like the stars.

“I am no god, little boy,” now the shape, Tayamni, spoke from a dark mouth. “I am just he-who-waits-and-watches. I observe the universe and man, recording for all time what I see. My friends, the other celestial creatures, that is our task.”

As the great beast descended to the ground, its form solidified and its size, still massive against the boy’s diminutive frame, shrunk to approximately what the boy imagined a buffalo would be. The ground shook ever so slightly as the creature's full weight alighted. Tayamni was no longer some ethereal sky monster, he was real flesh and blood, though its eyes, horns and hooves still had that starlight quality.

“Did you watch me?” The boy asked timidly. “I woke up here and I can't remember anything. Just that I am tired and lonely.”

“Why yes,” Tayamni answered. “That is why I reached out to you. I could feel the ache in your heart and see the panic in your little blue eyes when you peeked above the grasses.”

“Please, Tayamni,” the boy was eager now, leaning forward on his knees before the great buffalo. “Can you share anything? Maybe it will help me remember.”

The giant, settled into a relaxed pose, lying on the ground, forelegs crossed in front of it, like a schoolmaster about to instruct a pupil.

“You have made this journey before.” He began, “Many times. Your fall here is not a punishment or accident, but a result of having outgrown something you share. A connection whose form cannot contain your want and desire. As with any container, when full, it overflows. essentially, your love overflowed the universe and you are washed away as a result. Carried by some etheric tempest.”

The boy looked confused.

“This was no act of aggression, my young friend.” Tayamni assured him. “There is no anger involved. You were released by love. Some lights grow too bright to hold in the palm, so they return to the sky.”

“But—” the boy began “I am not in the sky. Right? I am here, so why didn't I return as you were?”

The old bull leaned his enormous head toward the Boy, cocked it slightly so one eye drew close, it was the size of a saucer. “THAT, is the question you always ask! I cannot say except to presume it is your desire. Your want for this love is so great, you are unwilling to leave it behind and ascend to your place in the heavens. If you look there in the night sky, you can see a tiny blank spot where you belong.”

The astral animal gestured to the northern sky with his sparkling hoof.

“Do I find that which I seek? This great thing I cannot deny?” the boy was calm, seeking clarity.

“Perhaps. You always leave seeking. And I can only assume at some level, you find your goal, but always you fall here, in the cricket grasses. They’re already singing of your return. You’re big news in the lives of little insects.” The boy was sure he saw Tayamni smiling and wink as he said this. They could not speak of the boy's journey, but would always sing what they knew.

“Tonight, you will rest and sleep through tomorrow. Starlight travels best in the dark and dawn grows closer even now.” he said as the eastern horizon bloomed the faintest of magentas against the inky indigo sky.

“The rest of your journey will wait for you. The destination always will. This much, I do know.”

“You know that which I seek?” again the boy piqued.

“No, no, my little star—” the buffalo shook its head. “But I've watched planets orbit stars for millennia and comets who can never quite pull away from the pull at their hearts. When true love is struck, there is no stopping it. You will burn out the universe in timeless pursuit of your goal.”

The boy grew suddenly very sleepy as the sky glowed to a bright yellow and felt a great urge to sleep.

Standing to yawn and stretch before leaning his weight against the coarse fur of the buffalo's head he said, “Oh, my—I am suddenly in desperate need of rest.”

“I know, starlight.” the warmth of the animals voice was very soothing to the little boy, making him sleepier still. “Come, rest in my heart. I will protect you until the daystar grows too weary herself and returns the night to us.

At this invitation, Tayamni's chest glowed pale blue and shimmered to translucence. The boy stumbled next to the bull feeling the course fur with his hand and reaching the glowing heart lay down inside the buffalo. The viscous blue light was like a comforting hug from a mother and in short order, the boy was fast asleep. As soon as he was, Tayamni stood and shook his mane at the rising sun.

“Hello, old girl!” He said as he began to trot eastward. Rumbling into a gallop, the ground shook and the crickets leaped away as the big beast transformed back into his celestial form and glided away into the brightening morning sky. Within moments, it was no longer distinguishable from the rest of the fading night sky.

Day had begun.

The boy woke after a timeless sleep, feeling energetic and alive. The sky was growing dark and the first stars were beginning to emerge.

The low rumble of Tayamni's voice rolled across the grassy plain. “Safe journey, little prince. We will watch your journey and guide you where we can.”

The boy stood erect, face to the sky, an arm extended in a waving salute. “Thank you! Tayamni! Do you think I can find her?”

“I have felt your heart many times, my little light.” The voice carried the feeling of love and pride the bull had for the boy. “It is pure and true. And a true love like yours will always succeed, because you will never stop.”

High above the stars shimmered—kind and watchful, and a tear streaked back across the boy's cheek and tickled his ear, making him smile. So he found the north star, for which he had a strong feeling of kinship, turned right and took his first steps. He was certain of one thing. It was not the first time, but possibly, this would be the last.

And the little audience of insects watched as the boy vanished over the hill. As he drew away they began their song again. Crickets could not speak of his journey—but they remembered. And they sang of it forever.

#story #adventure #legend #journal #confession #100daystooffset #writing

orig: 2025-08-06 23:45:00

Art is not for commodity. It is for passion.

Someone set the sky on fire.
Just now—
in those grey-dark moments
before the day begins,
a match was struck,
a tiny ember glowing.

In minutes it flared
into a red-hot blaze,
burning through
the eastern clouds.

Pastels spread,
then yellow,
orange,
red,
indigo,
violet—
a spectrum spilling wide.

No gavel will ever fall
on this masterpiece.
The artist sketched it in a breath,
then cast it into being,
a gift to his
greater creation.

—

#essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #poetry #

A Pilot’s Journey Through Slow Sand and Flight

In the quiet weight of being stuck, all roads begin to open.

Between waking and sleep, the edges of reality blur—where knives can glow, droids can chatter like old friends, and alligators wear coveralls. Here, the rules bend, and a pilot finds himself stranded not by fate, but by the slow, sticky sands of doubt and longing. Yet in stillness lies escape, and even the deepest trap may open the widest horizons.

I discover tonight that I am a pilot, callsign Lovesick. I wear a bright orange flight suit adorned with assorted tchotchkes and buttons attached to my breast. From that collection of ephemera, a large glowing knife juts out. At first, people stare with concern, asking if I am hurt. I assure them I’m fine. This blade has become part of me—woven into my very fabric, my definition.

My craft, the X-wing, burns hard toward our waypoint. S-foils locked, ready for the attack run. I come in for a landing—at a grocery store!

My companion droid, T5-9D, points out we’re low on bananas and marshmallows. We could also use some lubricants for T5's comfort. The arid sands have created problematic chafing.

Vienna by Ultravox blares from my Walkman, so loud my ears bleed a sticky silver goo—not blood, but something glowing like fairy dust, sweet and thick, like jam. T5 insists it can get louder:

“Whirr-beep, click-click, whistl-bop, beep-beep, whirr!”

I tell T5 it’s plenty loud.

“Bipp, bipp, click-whistle.”

“Well, maybe I am too old,” I quip back.

We swoop low beneath strange clouds that twirl in wild DNA helices across a red sky writhing just above ragged mountaintops.

Deep in a valley, the ship settles beneath the heavy boughs of a massive willow in a bayou. The air hums with humidity and the scent of life. An alligator slips through the shallow water, eyes gleaming yellow.

Waddling onto the mossy shore, it stands erect, well over six feet tall, wearing lavender attendant’s coveralls. ‘Gresham’ is embroidered on a patch over its left breast pocket.

“Would you like a kiss?” it asks, voice seductive, low and wet.

“No, thank you.”

Instead, it offers a hug. The creature’s skin is not as coarse as I expected, but smooth as silk—cool and oddly stimulating, like balm to my weary chest. I weep quietly into its embrace.

“Bet you wish you’d accepted that kiss,” it murmurs coyly while tending the ship’s fuel needs.

“Sugar-free or sap?” she asks.

“I don’t care,” I answer, wiping wetness from my cheeks.

From the trunk of the ancient willow, a long vine snakes down, wrapping gently around the fuselage.

“It’ll be a minute,” Gresham tells me.

I settle on the back of a nearby hippo—Shiela—her broad body rising and falling with slow breaths. I sip warm tea from a cracked porcelain cup. Nearby, a grand piano rests half-submerged in mud, its keys worn but gleaming.

The piano speaks to me in a language foreign and wild, communicating through chords simple but indecipherable. A google bird perches on its ledge, whispering the piano thinks I have kind eyes and wants to play something for me.

“No, I need to go,” I say softly.

The piano’s chords twist into a plea: “You can’t. You’re stuck in the sand.”

I rise and return to the ship. It’s right. The ground has consumed the landing gear. The bottom of the ship is disappearing. The sand creeps higher, swallowing the fuselage inch by inch.

“Slow-sand,” Gresham says, nodding toward the tree. “Most people come down here but don’t stay. They forget the sign.”

I feel the weight of disappointment settle over me, heavy as the humid swamp air.

I ask the powerful Shiela to pull me free.

She strains and snorts, muscles bulging beneath her skin, but the slow sand holds fast. She falters, and I feel the sinking deepen.

Defeated, I step down.

Gresham motions for me to join her.

“Let me take you through the bayou,” she says. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

Opening her enormous mouth, I see the interior has transformed into a lush, red reading chair. I sit, cross legged and we slip into the still.

We glide silently through dark water, willow branches brushing our faces, fireflies flickering like distant stars.

At the heart of the bayou, we claw onto land and climb in a spiral up an ancient, moss-draped bald cypress. On a cluster of branches laid with a clutter of sticks and foliage perches an eagle, its feathers boiling gold in the dappled light.

Gresham nudges me gently forward.

The eagle offers a single golden feather.

“Eat this,” it says, eyes sharp and ancient. “You will find it—liberating.”

I do.

The feather melts on my tongue, warmth spreading from my chest to my fingertips. It tastes of mandarin, plum, and clove—and a hint of jasmine. Spicy and delicious.

Suddenly, I am everywhere and nowhere. I blink and find myself back at the grocery store landing bay, then beneath the willow, then soaring above the bayou on wings I did not have moments ago.

Being stuck in the slow sand had not trapped me—it had opened every possibility.

No longer bound by the rules of physics and reality, I can go anywhere in and out of time.

I am no longer a pilot. I am become THE the pilot. The glowing knife is part of me still, but now I carry wings made of light and choice.

S-foils unlocked.

#dream #writing #xwing #pilot #alligator #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing

Discuss...

When reality fails you, look to your dream last for answers. At least you will be entertained.

I rode at sunset last night. It was the perfect evening to be alone with my thoughts. The bike grumbled under me like a frustrated hornet and the wind sang sorrowful songs as I pierced its viscous veil.

I was filled with thoughts and worry. I had been all day. But what healing can a wounded soul offer?

When I stopped in the dark to make my bedroll, I prayed that the moonlight would offer some solace and respite for old fools.

The stars had witnessed my ancestors suffer worse actions and effects, not blessing nor condemning them. The constellations know nothing of men and women like us and long since lost count of our failures.

But, as I drift away to the serenade of crickets, I remind myself that out there is a personality who does sympathize with fools. For even they are made in a fear-inspiring way.

I feel I have barely closed my eyes before I find myself in another world.

I was lost in a jungle.

Again.

Canopy as thick as night far above me. 
Woody vines clung like old regrets to ancient trees. I leaned against the grandfathered bark hoping their wisdom would flow into me. The air was wet as it amplified the calls and cries of the place. Squawks, peeps, screeches—sounds alien to my human ears.

Two stone heads followed me,
enormous, expressionless, ancient. They looked as if they had been chiseled from the monoliths at Chichen Itza. 


They hovered silently at first,
but when I asked them questions—
the kind that burn in the belly—they only answered in color.

Their stone jaws would flex and out would pour a river of hue.

“Where am I supposed to go?“
 Red.


”What does she mean by what she said?“
 Blue.


”Do I stay or do I leave?“
 Green.


Color after color.
 Not words, not maps—just saturation.


Each answer bloomed and faded before I could hold it, pouring from this reality into some empyrean realm where lakes burned vermillion into lavender skies.

The trees thinned. 
Concrete sprouted like strange orchids. 
I stepped through a clearing in the moonlight and into the mall as if into a dream within a dream.

Fluorescent lighting flickered overhead. 
The escalators hummed like tired prayers.
 And there—near a shuttered bookstore—
the air shimmered. My nose caught the faintest hint of perfume drifting like a thought.


Sweet, smoky, dangerous.


She had been here.


Or maybe was here still, just out of reach.

The scent wrapped around me like silk and memory.


I followed it, heart pounding,
 but only found a jaguar curled on a bench outside the Sephora.


Its eyes were gold coins.


A rope of a tail flicked in time with a song I couldn't hear.

I tried to read—
to gather what was mine again—
but every time I opened a book,
 the jaguar took it between its teeth and swallowed it whole.


Page by page.


Story by story.


Devoured.

I shouted at the stone heads. 
 “Why won’t you speak to me in a way I understand?”

They glowed with a soft, pale light that vibrated the unreality.


The smell of the perfume deepened—
not just in my nose, but in my chest,
 as if scent had become a memory I could feel with my whole body.

The jungle rustled with indifference.


Or maybe patience. Then a gale came and turned the stoic trees into a riot of motion and sound. The forest dwellers grew quiet and sought refuge.

I don’t remember how I woke up—only that the world smelled like moss, regret, and loneliness and my hands were stained with color.

Maybe the answers aren’t in words,
 but in the shades we carry beneath the skin—
the wild and the quiet, the ache and the fire.


Maybe the jaguar devours what we cling to 
so something deeper can take root.

And maybe the jungle is not lost at all—
but waiting for us to see
 that sometimes, the only way forward
 is through the colors of our own silence.

Maybe.

Or maybe, it was the pizza at dinner.

#essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing #dream

Not all prayers are spoken. Some are lived.

He wished he could ease the pain As quickly as he caused it. He wished he could see reality— Or to make his wishes real. He wished to do no harm. He wished to edify all he touched. He wished so many things. Most of all, he wished for the happiness Of those he loved.

But broken tools, wielded by A flawed worker, Can only do damage— No matter the nobility of intention.

He had once felt a capable craftsman, But time—and the pressure of a life For which he was not suited— Had left him fractured, Shifted from his base At an awkward angle.

Where once there was Symmetry and balance, Now there were only juxtapositions— And tangents.

In a dream, He wandered through a silver wood, And there he found a vixen, Sitting calmly in the moonlight, Her eyes like glowing amber. Her name was Ashwyyn.

He asked her— Quietly, desperately— To help him understand his nature.

The fox tilted her head, Tail curled neatly around her paws, And she said:

“He who charges through the china Of beautiful hearts Leaves wakes of destruction. Like a small star drifting through A chocolatier. Like a broken bagpipe At a festival of love. The thrill of recklessness Comes at a cost.”

“And thus it has always been. And thus it shall always be.”

And so he wept.

And he prayed.

He prayed his tears might soften the world, Water its brittle soil. That sorrow might grow tenderness, And help him cherish beautiful things. He prayed for soothing of The hearts upon which he Tread so carelessly. He dreamed of green fields Where beautiful souls Could sit in peace, Satisfied with existence.

The vixen stood, Stepped lightly toward him, And said:

“The greatest life you can live Is one where the least harm is done, And the greatest number of lives Are made better by your hands.”

And so he wished. And he worked. And he wished. And he worked.

And though his story is not yet final, He would love, And he would learn to be loved, All his many days.

And still, He would wish. For wishing— Wishing never expires.

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