Writing Wrings the Last Drop of Blood

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”
—George Orwell

The demon of wanting to know the truth when there is no truth but your own truth; your own mind sees and hears things differently than any other mind on earth. However, having said that could we agree that if one sets about to expose the truth that one would look for facts as set forth in other author’s books? I do not know if this is true or not because all of life, at some point seems to be a fabrication; writing is a journey back into the soul as you relieve all that you have already lived and tried to forget or maybe tried to remember the good and failed because perhaps there was not enough good to remember. If one is often told that if only you could be more like your siblings you would not get into so much trouble. Is that the truth or did you just dream this bad dream and wake into a loving world. Parents can love their children but not really like them and the child knows when that is true. The wisdom of children far outweighs any other wisdom. It is the innocence of childhood before the world beats it out and flattens this wisdom.
Writing wrings the last drop of blood; tears the fabric of your soul and leaves you lying there in your own powerless state to change what might have been except maybe through writing the facts as you find them within the confines of a library or other public domain sources.
Neither is this true. There is no truth. There is no way to know absolutely what you search for. It is an impossible task but one must try to follow that path because there are gems along the way that may substitute for what you have looked for.
Is this a rant or a revelation? You choose.

Don’t you love all the dangling prepositions?

Word and Pen

To place you in the moment: First, I seldom ever write in rhyme. Second, this was echoing through my brain upon awakening. Before getting out of bed, half asleep, I wrote what I call a ditty.

my friend

the Pen

doth write

an end

while I lay sleeping

in rustic inn.

no fault

of Pen

brethren shutdown

the rustic inn

and grinned.

Locked within


Word and Pen.


Two twinkling stars

winking carelessly


my sister

and me.

Two cloud faces

smiling down

on us.

Two siblings


tumbling through


night sky,

while two siblings


When will

we follow?

Look to

the sky

look for the

twin sisters


at you.

May it

be me

not Her.

Being left

here alone


too scary

for me.

“A Necessary End”

Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.

  • Act II, scene 2, line 33.
  • Julius Caesar, Shakespeare



Susan died today. We lost touch as so often happened with us, but I thought she would eventually get back in touch and we would talk again. This did not happen.
I feel that the Universe opened and accepted this beautiful soul so full of life, so full of love.
Namaste’ Susan… Run again with the wind.

Originally posted on purpleborough:

Years ago my fathers youngest sister had a beautiful baby girl. She was cute, charming and a little sweetheart, the apple of her father’s eye!

My brother and I, along with other cousins, would tease her older brother that he would have to take her to school with no hair. It took a spell before her beautiful blond hair took root and became the shimmering glow surrounding her face. Back then, her mom would pull it straight up and tie a little ribbon around the few strands; eventually the ribbon would be lost.

She was a decade younger than I, so she would follow us around, making a nuisance of her little self. We said we minded but not really. Everyone would always comment on how cute she was; her clothes were always the best and I think, as the youngest of the grandchildren on my father’s side, the favorite…

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