• Diary

    Return To Bleecker Playground

    In the soft embrace of nostalgia, I wandered back to the streets of my youth, my footsteps retracing paths worn by the innocent glee of my childhood. I returned to Bleecker Playground, where decades had folded into mere whispers of time, I stood, silent, recalling memories that seemed as if they came from another lifetime in some forgotten dream. The carousel of life had continued on, seemingly without me, reflected in the vibrant eyes of the children around me—carbon copies of my own young, curious self. They were radiant with the unbridled joy of life, their hearts pulsating with dreams yet to unfold, just as mine did, now forty-some years…

  • Diary

    The Evolution Of My Artistic Self

    Recently, it occurred to me that there is an artist nesting inside everyone. Within me, this artist has taken many forms, a metamorphosis that has shaped not only my work but also who I am. My journey in artistic expression began with prose – words were my initial muse. They danced from my mind to the paper with a grace I could never replicate in the physical world. They were my partners in the intimate tango of storytelling. Each sentence was a step, each paragraph a pivot, turning my inner monologue into a dance I could share. But, as with all first loves, my relationship with prose evolved. It was…

  • Diary

    I Am The Queen Of Introspection

    Lying in the quiet of the night, I’m often reminded of a line from a classic Simon and Garfunkel song, “The Sounds Of Silence”, “Hello darkness, my old friend.” It’s during these silent moments that I converse with myself, navigating the intricate pathways of my thoughts, feelings, and emotions. This is my realm. I am the queen of introspection. Life has thrown its fair share of curveballs, and with each experience, I’ve taken a step back to understand it, to see how it fits into the bigger picture of my journey. Many may see this as overthinking or overanalyzing, but for me, it’s my way of connecting the dots. As…

  • Diary

    The Midnight Owl’s Unspoken Story

    In a forest swathed in the velvety embrace of the night, an enigma called the Midnight Owl reigned. This owl, with plumage as dark as the inky black sky and eyes that shimmered like a nebula, was no ordinary creature. It was said that this owl knew every secret, every whisper of the trees, every heartache of the beasts, and every dream of the stars. The Midnight Owl was a keeper of stories, a guardian of memories, and an observer of all things under the night’s canopy. Yet, there was one tale that the owl didn’t know: the story of you. Every night, when the world lay blanketed in silence,…

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    Cornerstone Content,  Diary

    Of Cakes And Conspiracies

    The knife used to cut the cake of celebration is the same one that inevitably gets used to stab one in the back, is an idea that recently came to me, harsh as a proverb, and laced with the kind of wisdom that is usually earned through a painful sequence of experiences. It wasn’t until the undulating waves of life had crashed upon my shores a few more times that I truly understood its depth, its reality, and its almost predestined inevitability. I recall the early days of my ambitious youth, days colored with the hues of success and nights scented with the fragrance of victory. Those were the times…

  • Diary

    Whispers In The Cosmos: Reflections At Dawn

    The dim light of dawn seeped through my curtains far too early this morning, disturbing a sleep I might have wished endless. In the quiet, with the world around me still lost in dreams, my mind wandered to the heavens. I gazed out my window at the stars, those mysterious spheres of incandescent gas that burn with fervent passion millions of miles from our grasp. They twinkled indifferently, not just as celestial ornaments, but as profound reminders of our mortality, reminding me of our minute existence in the grand vastness of the universe. Each flicker resonated within me, an echo of the unsettling truth that our time here is but…

  • fourth lake
    Diary

    Memories Of The 1990’s

    This morning, memories of the 1990’s unfolded before me as I let my mind wander back to those golden years. There’s a comfort in nostalgia, a gentle reminder that amidst the evolving moments of our lives, some remain etched in of our hearts, untouched and evergreen. Lately, as the brisk September wind dances through the leaves, I find myself enveloped in a warm embrace of yesteryears, a tender reunion with the moments that sculpted me into the woman I am today. I cast my memory back to the unforgettable summer of 1996—a time of blooming discoveries and the sweet taste of freedom. That summer held the magical paradox of youthful…

  • Diary

    Whispers Of The Wind

    From the instant I step onto the dew-kissed grass each morning, I am warmly welcomed by a caress of nature—a harmonious blend of forest scents, brought forth by the gentle summer breeze. To many, the countryside might merely be an expanse of land, but to me, it’s an ever-evolving landscape of life’s simplest yet profound joys. Dawn in the countryside is not just an awakening of the day, but of the soul. It’s a symphony led by nature, with melodies of chirping birds and harmonies of rustling leaves. The skies here don’t just dawn; they blossom, painting hues of ambers and pinks over the sprawling fields and undulating hills. The…

  • Cornerstone Content,  Diary

    The Seasons Of My Life

    Last night, nestled deep within the embrace of my blankets, I found myself lost in a dream on a journey through time. The landscape of my dreams is often a curious one, a theater where the scenes that unfold often transcend the boundaries of waking reality. As I fell asleep, I was transported to the various turning points of my life, watching, as if on a silver screen, the highs and lows, the joys and sorrows. The seasons of my life have never been kind to me, changing not just in weather, but in emotion and spirit. Like trees in winter, I’ve sometimes felt bare, stripped of hope and warmth.…

  • Diary

    Time Is An Irrelevant Social Construct

    In a world driven by schedules, dates, and tangible landmarks of time, I have chosen a different rhythm to which my heart beats. I don’t mark my time with dates, holidays, faded wisdom, or karma holders. Rather, my existence sings with the colors of memories, the whispers of feelings, and the variety of emotions and senses that form my experiences of life. Time is an inescapable linear progression of our reality. But in attempting to make sense of its relentless march, we’ve become attached to the irrelevant social construct of dates, which to most, become anchors in our existence year after year. They tether us to shared histories, common celebrations,…