Unbeknownst to the world and its impatience to get to that point in eternity when it will finally keel over by wars, famine,global warming, and just poor leadership, I exist. At this moment and in this piece of earth, where I plod through myriad to-dos and multiple breathtaking moments of pure innocence of a child not yet colored by the world that beckons her. I pause and I breath as I watch my little sphere of existence filled with people implode with worry, stress and just plain complacence or ignorance or just numbness as they trudge through their existence not feeling, not breathing , not pausing.
How will I write , I wonder? Where is the discourse, the angst, the questioning? Where is the edginess of the conversations that would awaken my muse and let it masturbate spilling its creativity onto my blank pages making it pregnant with characters, plot and beauty.
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