perspective

  • The Reader

    Some people are merely reading the chapters of their life as they are exposed, not everyone can be a writer. There is something unsettling about realizing you have been holding the book upside down. You thought the blank pages meant you were supposed to fill them. You thought the pen belonged to you. It never…

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  • A person who sits with their demons long enough realizes that they are all teachers wearing masks. I used to think they came carrying pitchforks. Turns out they arrived holding mirrors. Funny how disappointment always introduces itself as punishment until enough years pass for you to realize it was simply an instructor with terrible bedside…

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  • Borrowed Things

    Maybe it is just boredom that has brought me here, tired of human suffering. Not because suffering is unusual. Because it repeats itself with remarkable dedication. I sat watching people today and couldn’t decide what they were actually chasing. A better job. A bigger house. Someone else’s attention. An argument they intended to win before…

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  • Somewhere today someone is celebrating a birthday, but I truly wonder if they are celebrating the way they should. There it is again. The writer’s block. A great big stubborn wall parked right in the middle of my afternoon like it paid rent to be there. I stared at the blinking cursor hoping it would…

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  • There is a strange kind of silence that only writers hear. It doesn’t sound like silence at all. It sounds like an empty room where people were laughing five minutes ago. I never thought I would run out of things to say. Writers joke about writer’s block the way fishermen joke about rain. It exists.…

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  • Written Across the Sky

    There are things that should have been said. Not whispered years too late over a hospital bed. Not mumbled through regret after someone has already packed their bags. Not carved into a headstone where the only ears left to hear them belong to the wind. Some words arrive exactly when they are needed. Others never…

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  • Chasing Butterflies

    There is a strange little meadow that very few people ever notice. Not because it is hidden. Because nobody stays still long enough to see it. The butterflies there are unlike any you’ve ever imagined. Their wings shimmer with colors that seem to change depending on who is looking at them. Gold for the ambitious.…

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  • The first thing you noticed was the sound. Not birds. Not wind. Not laughter. It was the endless whisper of fabric scraping across ancient stone. Thousands of blankets. Dragging. Shifting. Catching on broken edges. The sound echoed so far into the distance it was impossible to tell where it began or where it ended. It…

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  • No one remembered hearing the machine start. Everyone remembered wondering why the silence felt so loud after it stopped. It wasn’t announced. There were no flashing lights. No emergency broadcast. No countdown. Just a strange feeling that somewhere beneath everything…something enormous had sighed its last breath. Then the world blinked. Not dramatically. Not with explosions…

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  • Nobody in Briar’s Hollow ever checked the sky. Not because they couldn’t. Because they had forgotten it mattered. They woke to alarm clocks instead of birds. They stared at glowing screens instead of sunrises. They measured life by deadlines, notifications, grocery lists, and traffic lights. If the wind changed, they blamed allergies. If their mood…

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