Time is a wind that keeps blowing in my face and mumbling words that don't make sense.
Time is a wind that keeps blowing in my face and mumbling words that don't make sense.
You're better than seven years of food. You're better than windows. You're even better than the sky.
But the hoping, that's what really hurts.
Careful with the accusations of insanity, oh my lady whose home is a tower with windows of brick, all for the sake of some skinny-ankled, laugh-prone boy of a khan.
I do like the world quite a lot.
I let my head fall back, and I gazed into the Eternal Blue Sky. It was morning. Some of the sky was yellow, some the softest blue. One small cloud scuttled along. Strange how everything below can be such death and chaos and pain while above the sky is peace, sweet blue gentleness. I heard a shaman say once, the Ancestors want our souls to be like the blue sky.
I wonder if everyone who faces death hurts like this. It's as though for the first time I realize how much just being alive makes my body ache. But I don't want that ache to stop.
Mama used to say, you have to know someone a thousand days before you can glimpse her soul.
Smell is the voice of the soul...
There's nothing more aggravating in the world than the midnight sniffling of the person you've decided to hate.
They weren't nice words he said. He could've lived a good life and died never having made a person feel rubbed down to bones and too sad to hold together.
This morning, Tegus welcomed me again with an arm clasp and cheek touch. I wasn't startled this time, and I breathed in at his neck. How can I describe the scent of his skin? He smells something like cinnamon-- brown and dry and sweet and warm. Ancestors, is it wrong for me to imagine laying my head on his chest and closing my eyes and breathing in his smell?
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories