The More Accurately One Can Illuminate A

Nobody Would Know Me From My Own Description Of Myself; Which Is Why, When Called Upon (rarely, I Grant) To Provide An Account, I Tailor It, I Adapt, I Try To Provide An Outline That Can, In Some Way, Correlate To The Outline That People Understand Me To Have -- That, I Suppose, I Actually Have, At This Point. But Who I Am In My Head, Very Few People Really Get To See That. Almost None. It's The Most Precious Gift I Can Give, To Bring Her Out Of Hiding.

Just Because Something Is Invisible Doesn't Mean It Isn't There. At Any Given Time, There Are A Host Of Invisibles Floating Among Us. There Are Clairvoyants To See Ghosts; But Who Sees The Invisible Emotions, The Unrecorded Events? Who Is That Sees Love, More Evanescent Than Any Ghost, Let Alone Can Catch It? Who Are You Tell Me That I Don't Know What Love Is?

And Then, Into The Fantasy, As Into A Dream, Would Come The Thought: It's Not Like This Anymore; The World Has Changed. Just The Way, Even At That Time Fully Two Years After My Mother's Death, I'd Catch Myself Thinking About Her As Alive; And Would Suddenly Remember, An Admonitory Finger Of Grief Upon My Breast, That She Was Gone.

Life's Funny. You Have To Find A Way To Keep Going, To Keep Laughing, Even After You Realize That None Of Your Dreams Will Come True. When You Realize That, There's Still So Much Of A Life To Get Through.

I’m Not A Writing Group Member, Not A Joiner In That Way. I Don’t Seek A Wide Swath Of Feedback.