“Broken Bad?” and Recent Weight Loss

So I break laws (take my mother’s estrogen patches) and defy the universe to even try to fuck with me again on that lame old score (breast cancer).

Cause that bitch done already been paid over and over and over again. In a million different ways. She owes ME at this point. Besides, she wouldn’t recognize me anymore.

Why? Oddly enough and without trying, I think I’ve mastered [and all inaccuracies and ignorances are mine here, especially since I’ve never read it] “the subtle art of not giving a fuck.”

Because:

Isn’t it a little presumptuous of anyone to assume ANY of us will be here tonight, tomorrow, or 3 months from now? In fact, I nearly laughed out loud just now making a 3-month follow-up appointment with my migraine doctor.

I don’t know what kind of/if any philosophy my views might reflect. I only know this is how I feel/what I think: who knows, I’m always getting the two confused, anyway.

At least this is what I feel-think today. That could change tomorrow. I can’t commit to much of anything at this point, you see. So I’m sorry/not sorry. You’ll just have to deal with it.

What does this look like, practically speaking? I can (of course) only speak for myself. But…

I do stupid things like: I go off and leave personal belongings at the doctor’s office, then have to drive THE WHOLE WAY BACK to retrieve them. Yeah…why weren’t they the kind of personal belongings I wouldn’t have been allowed to exit the building without? If I’d left my mask, I know I wouldn’t have gotten far.

I’ve also become a terrible judge of character, turning Ignorant Assholes into Prince Charmings with NO DATA WHATSOEVER TO SUPPORT THESE CONCLUSIONS!!

Thank goodness I seem capable from learning from my mistakes in that department. This week at least.

I sing karaoke too much, smoke weed too much, forget to feed myself, refuse to clean my room, and spend far too much of my discretionary income on my hair [because I intend to look good for the duration].

Maybe I’m a little fixated on my hair because I’m so glad it grew back? I don’t know if this theory holds water because I also spend money on my sexy fake fingernails.

So… no news to you, my friends, but I’m not being particularly responsible these days. [Visitors: don’t get excited thinking you’re going to scam me; I’m not a sucker anymore, sucker – and even when I was, you couldn’t squeeze me.]

For my subscribers, who have suffered through at least one of my posts, we need to collectively face reality: I suck at karaoke. Yes, it’s true and I know it’s true. Y’all are just being sweet, but I know I suck.

Yet… I still don’t care!! Maybe because there’s no one left to embarrass but my mom, and no one would dare inform her of her adult daughter’s colossal lapses in judgment (out of respect for my mom).

I don’t know if it’s the weed or an existential crisis or even a POST-existential crisis. I only know I’m both a Total Flake and an Utter Mess.

At least that’s the look I’m shooting for.

This week.

How am I doing?

Heart-Dead

I’d rather feel everything — joy, happiness, fear, sadness, grief — too intensely than feel nothing at all.

We use the term “brain-dead” with relative ease, but few talk of being “heart-dead.” In my dictionary, heart dead is synonymous for emotionally flat; an inability to feel.

While I realize it might be easier for others to live that way:

For me, emotional numbness is a grasping, ferociously tentacled black hole of Nothingness, threatening the perfect equilibrium I’ve cultivated within the galaxy of My Heart.

Feel much?

Good for you.

I prefer my heart beating, too. ❤️

—————————————————-

[Photo @coolmilo. Thanks!)

#definition #emotionsmatter #feel #aliveness

I Thought the Traumas Aged Me

I thought my traumas aged me.

All the childhood crap, the losing of all my pregnancies, the searing betrayals, the fights with death and disease, the ongoing fights with death and disease, and the psychological fallout from all of the above.

Yada, yada, yada.

But no: nothing ages a person like wearing her (or his) heart completely exposed and unprotected on the prosaic sleeve; aware of the devastating effects of every tiny particle of dust and vaporous breeze that touches and then and has no choice but to scar it.

At which point you’re trying to fly low behind the radar, attempting to allude Cosmic Scrutiny and trying hard not to attract more pain than is unsurvivable.

Multiplied by the number of children you have.

That’s the Crucible that turns Ordinary Sitizens into Old Souls.

When You’ve Got a Hammer

When you’ve got a hammer

All you see are nails

Welcome to the way that

It feels to be fe-male’

Cause when you’ve got a hammer

You’re looking for a hole

You like to force the rage out

That percolates below

And when you take your hammer

You shatter someone’s glass

It could have been my own date

Now grabbing at my ass!

We all can use our hammers

To put each other down

You even ditched your woman

To play “Man About Town

The one who stood beside you

When things in life got tough

The one who always loved you

And thought you were enough

She even liked your hammer

When it no longer worked

So why’d you end up treating

Her like such a jerk?

Now here it’s ten years later

You’re acting quite the creep

You think a beer will buy me

Dude: I don’t come that cheap

The only way I’ll date you

Is Payment in Advance

And with no invitation:

Keep your hammer in your pants!

These are the second set of lyrics (poem?) I’ve written according to the beat of another song. Essentially, my tool for stimulating creativity. #ShapeSong

The Kind of Love That Doesn’t Exist

You’re always there, you never let me down.

When I feel used and beaten and spit back out from the underbelly of a cockroach carcass, your presence comforts me.

It draws me out of my pain; up from down; in from out.

It elevates me and makes me better a better woman and a better human being. Just because you listen to me.

Because you held me when I shed all of those tears that I just needed to shed in front of a man. I always had my mother, but I never had my father. I’m comfortable opening up amongst women, but I’ve never had many platonic male friendships,

You knew that about me. And since you’d done your own therapy and self-reflection, you were the first man who brought emotional weight and awareness to the negotiation table.

I ended up winning the lottery when I met you. I knew it when you let me cry in your presence.

The first time we met, you let me cry.

It didn’t scare you off. You were man enough to handle it. You knew that women cry sometimes. You knew that little girls who were told to stop crying still cried on the inside.

And still needed to be comforted.

Even when they found themselves in a grown woman’s body. They still need to be comforted.

For what felt like the first time for me, you loved me first. You somehow knew I needed that. That for this final go-around, I needed that.

That I needed to be courted and treasured; that just once, I needed to feel like a princess.

I needed to be one person’s “one person.” One person’s Greatest Love; First Choice; Deepest Bond.

Since I was always a second wife, you stepped up and loved me with an Adult Love.

The way a Grown Man loves his Greatest Treasure.

Only your criteria for what defined a “treasure” (a “gem”) was different than most men’s criteria: you complimented me on my physical attributes, but your love wasn’t skin-deep. You had eyes that saw me at my best; at my most radiant.

You loved The Lover in me, The Fighter in me, The Child in me, The Woman in me, and The Mother in me to (you told me that my 3 pregnancies made me a mother and that one day, I would be reunited with my children).

You also loved the Daughter in me, the Friend in me, the Cheerleader (with official cheerleading outfit) in me, and the Soul Mate in me.

You said it didn’t matter that we were meeting late in life; that a few years of what we had cancelled out any prior misery,

You said we could still redeem and restore each other, even if we only have a few years.

Your love enhanced me rather than diminished me; it radiated rather than obscured me; grabbed me close rather than pushed me away.

I had already done most of my mourning, so I was free to love you from a better place. But your love and acceptance energized and catalyzed me in a way I deemed impossible – at least for me.

You did all this just by being there. And listening. When I woke you up in the middle because I had to talk to you, you didn’t mind.

Our love was also a laughter kind of love. We laughed so damned much! I don’t think I laughed that much in all of the preceding years combined.

You let me be all of the things I needed to be when I needed to be them.

You never shamed or judged me. You accepted me. Welcomed me. Desired me. Just me and Only me. You wanted No One But Me. Ever again.

You said I was more than enough. That even if we only had five years together, that would be enough.

That we could die happy and fulfilled.

I had been so lost. Not in a bad way; just in a “lost my bearings” sort of way. You were my Lighthouse. My Horizon Line.

Thank you for Loving Me First.

Because you did, I was able to love you from my purest, unfiltered place. From my reserves. I went to my wine cellar and brought out my best and most expensive Cabernet for you. I carved, scraped, toiled and mined to find my Ruby-Sapphire love for you.

Rubies for passion and sapphires for loyalty. All for you.

My purest, most extreme, and most terrifying (for me) private love, I gave to you. Loving you made me a better human being and a better spiritual being.

All because,

From your core:

You loved me first.

Sexual Molestation at Your Local Neighborhood K-Mart

“I frigging love this❣️ I don’t know why we insist on only using “lovely” and “lavish” language in poetry. Poetry should reflect life, an observation you and only you are equipped to make. So if I didn’t already say it: I love it!”

This was the comment I made on the poem Your Design by Kait King. I’m linking it, not because I have any exposure to offer Kait [she’s a professional, and I’m not], but because I obviously like what she wrote. I can guarantee you that if you like anything I’ve written, you’ll feel the taut determination of justice in this piece. It’s also important for you to read it for us to move forward. So please, 30 seconds:

https://kaitkingthewriter.blog/2021/11/15/your-design/

Okay, you’ve read it. I want to link a poem I wrote about a murdered child after binge-watching true crime videos on YouTube. Please do me the honor of reading it. I believe it honors predated children by shining a light on their predators. And again, it’s necessary to proceed with this.

https://comewordplaywithme.com/2021/09/23/a-child-cries-unheard/

I know: it’s not a light read. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’m starting to realize that my more imaginative writings have a way of amplifying my inner voice. I don’t know if that requires elaboration (which is a bad sign at this point), but I’ll try:

The week I wrote that poem, my first-ever (of 2) based on lyrical patterns in songs I particularly like, I was thinking a lot about the time I was “sexually molested” (I don’t even know the term for it anymore) as a 6-year-old in a K-Mart in Atlanta, Georgia.

Those were different times and I don’t blame my mom that this happened. She didn’t even know about it until I told her years later. It was during the summer, and every time we went to the store, my mom had to “struggle” all five of us “summer siblings” into an impossibly-small car. Seriously, there were no Tahoes in the ‘70s! I don’t even know how we got to the store in the first place, I just…don’t. I only know that as soon as the car officially came to a stop, children and adults had dispersed and were on their ways to their own favorite dark corners of the store.

Of course, I was the child who made a bee-line for the Toy Section…because that’s where the Barbies were. And I adored Barbie, Skipper, PJ, Ken, and their “Malibu” cousins. All I wanted whenever I had a birthday was a Barbie. And if I didn’t have enough birthday money saved, I’d buy barbies clothes instead. I had a large vinyl box that held all of my barbies and all of their clothes and accessories. I had a mental inventory of every single item in that box.

So I didn’t see the old man near the toy section until I was next to him, separated by an aisle that was about 3 feet high (I’m not very good with height and depth perception). I just remember looking (up?) to see an old (because he’s bald, like my Grandaddy), nice (because again, he looks like my Grandaddy, and Grandaddy loves me) Man standing there.

Who looked DOWN at me and said Come Here, Little Girl.”

He must need my help, because Grandaddy only ever tells me to do something in that mean kind of way if it’s an emergency. So he must need my help. And you’re not supposed to not mind your parents or grandparents, especially when you and your mommy and sister used to live with your grandparents. Since your Daddy didn’t live with you anymore.

Now you only know that your new Daddy Mike says it’s very important to mind grownups, and you’re a good girl. Maybe your older sister Stephanie isn’t, but you are.

So you go to help, and the nice old man tells you he has an emergency (good thing you listened!). He describes his emergency as this:

“I have a “pin” stuck in my [this is one thing I don’t remember: the term he used for it] __________,” but it really didn’t matter because he was busy demonstrating with what he was holding in his hand.

He said he needed me to help get the pin out.

I remember I sucked in my breath very quickly, because immediately I knew I was seeing something that I shouldn’t see.

And there wasn’t a “pin” in it, either.

That man, positioned right in front of the toy section, proceeded to shake his grown man’s penis in front of my little girl’s face. Why? Because he got a thrill from trying to crush the Innocence out of a

Little.

Tiny.

Baby.

Girl.

Well, guess what, Cocksucker (because I’m sure if you’re not dead, you’re professionally sucking cock in prison right now):

You’re a sick pedo fuck and you and the rest of your kind with your disgusting shriveled cocks can rot in your own level of hell for ten eternities, alone and with no one to keep you company but each other.

P.S. You didn’t succeed. I refused to let you steal my Innocence.

P.P.S. I know you sick pervs get off on reading shit like this, but as does Kait’s character in Your Design, I want to expose you for the cowardly, crude, contaminated criminal you are.

The Recipe for Disaster

You start with a perfectly decent heart and a perfectly decent mind and a perfectly decent body

And then…

your perfectly decent heart

and your perfectly decent mind

and your perfectly decent body

all

‼️BREAK‼️

Over…

And Over…

And Over…

Again.

And you wonder why I don’t take things seriously anymore?

Jennifer, The Multimedian

My Introductory Post on Instagram:

MY INTENTIONS HERE

I tend to censor myself on Facebook because, in my head, I’m certain “Everyone” thinks I’m having a nervous breakdown when I attempt to express myself creatively. Maybe it’s because my mother and I share 107 Facebook friends? Or because Family Members and many Friends Since 8th Grade are there?
It doesn’t really matter since the problem is my own.

To tackle it, about 3 months ago, I started expressing myself emotionally on a [Wordpress] blog and physically, through Karaoke, on my [YouTube] channel…of 20 wonderful followers❣️

Both have been anonymous enough for me to feel free to put words to (writing)- and then exorcise (publishing)- the vicious lies and hateful slurs I didn’t even realize I was telling myself. Since forever.

I’m incredibly grateful to these social media platforms for helping me to rediscover my voice. By providing me with therapeutic outlets for energy and conversations too long suppressed, they’ve served as my freedom fighters, rescuers, and liberators.

So please, Friends, here on Instagram (where I’m a total newbie): if you know me personally, know my family, or have known me a long time, don’t judge me by the words I write. Sharing openly and honestly is a life-preserving activity for me. If I don’t do it, my body makes cancer. And I really don’t want to die! For the first time in a long time, I want to stick around. I’m having so much fun, and I feel like I have cried enough. I’m getting really tired of these tears, my Friends❣️

Please extend me the benefit of the doubt and don’t make any assumptions from my words. Some of my angriest ones could be directed at a disease or a traumatic experience.

I want and need to be my most authentic self for what’s left of This Journey. Having gotten a taste of it, I want to actually BE Jennifer instead of play her on TV. I just can’t play the “role you never knew I was playing” anymore❣️

#socialmedia #selfexpression #honesty #transparency #authentic #authenticity #facebook #conversation #creativewriting #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #womensupportingwomen #women #mentalhealth #breastcancer #traumahealing #vulnerability

What I’d Tell My 7-Year-Old Self

You are beautiful and worthy and perfect just as you are. Follow your heart and don’t lose your passion.
ALWAYS choose feeling over numbing, no matter how terrifying.

Don’t let your tears frighten you, Little One. They are a gift from God Himself.

These efforts will require more bravery than you can imagine or even comprehend right now.

SO LET’S MAKE A PACT:

YOU promise ME you’ll never give up, and I can promise YOU we’re going to be okay.

I’ve seen and lived our future: we survive, but it doesn’t turn out the way we planned.
I’m sorry about that.
I tried very hard, but I just wasn’t strong enough.
It’s called Failure.
Failure” happens when, as a Big Girl, you realize all of those happy, hopeful movies you made in your mind are never going to happen.
In that moment of Despair, when you notice your Dreams are slipping away,
LET THEM GO!!
Unfulfilled Dreams don’t hurt as much once you’ve learned to forget them.

Lastly, and this is what the dictionary calls a “cliché,”:

Life is SO short, Little One.

Every moment feels forever when you’re young.
Somewhere along the line, the pace picks up and Life starts playing in fast-forward.
Time attempts to escape our grasp, and we never have enough of it.
People often behave strangely when they recognize this truth.
I know us well enough by now that I can assure you we don’t deliberately treat others badly.
Instead, we’re more haunted by the risks and chances we DIDN’T take than by the poor choices we DID.

So please, I beg you:
STOP worrying about all the things you should, shouldn’t, could, couldn’t, can, can’t, will, won’t, or might do and…
JUST DO
❣️


PS. You’ll be DOing us both a huge existential favor
(try to remember to “Google” ‘existential” one day; I know you’ll find the topic interesting)

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I Owe You an Apology, Jeff

So, I wrote you a few scathing letters last week, but I think I may be the “me” in this “mea culpa.”

See, I’ve been thinking you were The Head Honcho/The Big Cheese/The “Bill Gates” of Google, YouTube, G-mail, and all other Google apps (yes, that’s you Blogger, refusing to talk to WordPress or vice-versa; I don’t know which of you isn’t playing well with the other.)

Anyway, it just occurred to me today that I was SO WRONG! You’re not the G-note who is responsible for my Current Family-Discord: you’re the A-note!

You just sent me that wireless mouse; the one I purchased expressly because 1) it was wireless and 2) it came with its own doogle.

Only it doesn’t come with it’s own doogle, as both box and product listing proclaim. My now-problem with you, Jeff, is that I was so certain you would never betray me beyond your ability to “un-betray” me, I didn’t bother to open the mousebox for 32 days. Even though lately you’ve been charging me $35 for earbuds and mailing me $2.99 ball caps instead. “Accidentally.” You know, Jeff: I simply abhorr conspiracy theories, but a common thread you find in all of them is: “Look at the Money.” I’ll say “COVID-19” and leave it there. Which also makes me think: “BIG PHARMA.” DISNEY, NETFLIX, SONY.

I’M SORRY, I JUST COULDN’T STOP‼️, Besides, I 💯 % subscribe to the theory that Global Pandemics Deserve Global Providers❣️ So don’t get mad at me when I’m still mad at you, okay?

Global companies for a Global pandemic. But like I said: I don’t believe in conspiracy theories.

Especially since I’ve been dealing with excruciatingly painful dental problems all month. Sending my mouth into the hands of no less than 15 different men and women across the entire San Antonio Metropolitan Area. Including once last week as well as yesterday into the more expensive hands of an oral surgeon (ca-ching!); a former navy seal (ca-double-ching!) who volunteers for Dentists for Humanity (I don’t think I meet the requirements) working on Veterans’ Day (triple-caching!) while paying an assistant administer the “full-sedation package” (a non-negotiable).

So: do I have your attention now, Jeff? Am I speaking in dollars you can finally comprehend?

You see: my 30 Day Nightmare of Dental Torture finally ended yesterday morning, beginning a 10-Month Nightmare of Financial Torture; simply to restore me to simple dental health while simultaneously destroying both my mental and financial health.

Honestly: it’s a tradeoff worthy of serious contemplation. What finally convinced me to Go Large was The Vanity Involved. I can’t imagine living, loving, and being fully human without my trademark winning smile. No, Jeff, not even a man of your Means, Jeans, Teams, Queens, whose Living the Dream can steal that from me! (Kinda “rapt” towards the end there).

The ribbon-cutting procedure to This New Adventure, and hopefully the closing ceremony on The Worst of the Pain was a very expensive, highly unplanned, surgically oral extraction of tooth #19, along with the insertion of a “bone graft” at 10:00am yesterday morning. Thursday.

Veteran’s Day. RIP, #19. Until we get the fake one, it was a pleasure living with you for the first 52 years. I can’t say the same for the last 2.

I guess, Jeff, both my hopes and my fears were realized yesterday. My hopes because I felt “better-enough” to to do some blogging on my old blog, Blogger; which required me to grasp for the Chrome-cast I bought to satisfy Whoever Owns Google, so that I can maintain my YouTube channel with an iota of professionalism).

That Chromecast has a terrible keyboard, Jeff; a fact I never learned from poring over [YOUR] site reviews for tens of hours before I spent hundreds of dollars on the many electronic devices you sold me last month so that I could create content on the apps you gave me for free. Years and years of content ago. But again: I don’t believe in price-fixing or other conspiracy theories.

Sadly, I’ve been in too much dental pain to use these electronic devices very much. Which is why I didn’t get around to opening the wireless mouse until yesterday, after your return window had closed. I wasn’t worried: it’s not like you were Steve Jobs or Jeff Bezos or anything!!

Anyway, after trying to type on the Chromecast “touch-ignore” for 60 seconds, I reached for the mouse.

Only to find my mouse’s doogle had been removed.

If I had wanted a female mouse, Jeff, don’t you think I would have ordered one? If I had a mouse with a doogle, I wouldn’t have purchased the specific make, model, and package I researched with a ruthlessness I’m quite sure would have impressed you

My point here, Jeff, is this: I felt sorry for about 10 seconds since I [technically] “incorrectly” vented about you on my little blog of self-expression, confusing you with the Owner of the G-Men.

But then you went and pissed me off after an expensive, painful dental procedure, and that just wasn’t smart. Especially since I can get so obsessive about the goods and services I tend to stockpile from you. I have been known to seek greener pastures, and combined with my laziness in general, makes me very profitable to you. I suggest you you remember that.

With The Back of My Hand:

Or, “A Hannibal Kind of Lust”

—————————

I love you so much that

I’d like to Eat You Alive.

And then wipe your blood off of my mouth

with the back of my hand

that still has

chunks of your hair and scalp

threaded through my fingers.

And later,

after I burp up your digestive juices,

I’ll sleep more soundly

than I ever have before.

—————————

Photo credit: Catalin Pop. Thank you!

Dear Prince Charming

I have a question for you:

WHY DID YOU:

1. Feel compelled to

2. So that you could

3. In order to

4. While simultaneously

5. And refusing to compromise about

6. Only to THEN

7. And STILL insist you “had no choice but to”?

NO, DON’T ANSWER. It’ll probably just piss me off. Why?

1. I happen to think you’re a smug

2. Self-satisfied

3. [Yet] ultimately unsatisfying

4. Judgmental

5. Prick

6. Because

7. You are.

Thank you, Afif Khasuna, for the pboto.

•Miss SmartyHearts and Miss LonelyPants•

Effective immediately: I have officially “put out a shingle” with my latest career effort. Since it won’t bring in a dime, my motivation may be inconsistent, but I’m wiling to put my best foot forward…at least initially.

I have officially begun an “Agony Advice”/“Miss Lonelyhearts”/“Dr. Ruth”/“Erma Bombeck”/“Miss [Dating and Relationship] Manners” column which will be penned by two contributors: Miss SmartyHearts (for natters of the heart) and Miss LonelyPants (for matters of the body).

I’m advising you in advance that this advice of which I will be advising you will be from an unequally rare and rarefied point of view: that of a once-highly intelligent, well-travelled and -educated woman who is now equal parts:

1) Old, 2) Out of Touch, and 3) Immature.

But with good hair & nails and a lovely complexion (if I do say so myself). And of course, a winning enthusiasm and eagerness to advise you of my advice to your queries!

On the rare occasion I do not feel qualified to answer your question with my personal wisdom alone, I will conduct primary research in the form of: first person interviews, mall/bar/date/karaoke “intercepts,” video surveillance, long and irritating telephone surveys, and if necessary, “transferential experience.

TE (copywrite) is a technique I developed after many years of serving in my capacity as a highly-esteemed market research professional (actually one of the best in the business, just ask 3 people I knew in 1996).

TE basically means: if all else fails, and I still don’t know the answer: I will go find out for myself!

And then share My Lessons Learned with all of my Beloved Readers! Because I possess bountiful generosity. Which will drive my desire to provide you with my best advice birthed from 1) my experiences, told from my 2) [again] uniquely qualified, broken down perspective. Always with my signature spunk and stubborn unwillingness to learn from my mistakes❣️

So, feel free to start addressing your queries regarding “matters of the heart” to Miss SmartyHeart and matters of the physical body to Miss Lonelypants (who will try to draw from her long-term memory, so no promises about anatomical accuracy). I only ask that you specify in the Re: line which Expert Miss is the recipient for your inquiry (because these can easily get blurred, difficult to read, and then who knows what kind of answer you’ll get?)

The Misses are also a bit jealous of each other, so if you have a preference, you should ask. If not, those old harpies might both answer your questions!]

And I’ve got to advise you of one last bit of advice:

Begin submitting your burning questions immediately because Miss SmartyHearts and Miss LonelyPants could begin sending letters to each other; and I honestly can’t predict what that might look like.

So you’ve been warned. And, my pledge: I will always bring my 💯 % authentic self and former work ethic to this incredibly humbling responsibility I am agreeing to undertake on your behalf.

Lastly: MEN❣️ You are also welcome to write to the Misses with your burning queries. I will change all names to protect the innocentboth yours, my beloved readers, and all research assistants, interviewees, and participants.

I would suggest you get your money’s worth [especially since it’s free]!

#MissSmartyHeart #MisLonelyPants

These Lazy Days

About we lie and laugh and laze

In these hot and hazy lust-filled days

Counting clouds amongst temperatures rising

A world of us two, and from others are hiding

Sharing personal jokes only we understand

Facing each other, you reach for my hand

And in that moment, a bond’s made and sealed

A secret pact good as long as we feel

These majestic moments that make up the “now”:

Which are as sure and as sacred as a vocalized vow.

Photo credit: Jennie Clavel. Thank you!

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