A remarkably insightful and beautifully written expression of emotion. Fiorella is a gifted writer and a beautiful soul.
8:25 A.M. in speed of steel and train coming, coffee in hand and 30 minutes of longing to Seattle. Every face is a stranger, and every voice cracks a silence. I wait… for breath and vibration. Each voice tells a story, heart and soul- survival.
I withdraw into my thoughts, I am listening… I am lost… in the listening, simultaneous wanderings, coffee, and the music of these people’s ease and labor. Souls thriving and absent. And I am thinking about my youngest nephew, whose depths hide me, how his little peace hides me, all of his 17 months staring at me. He is dark space and fresh stars, in an unborn morning.
I remember I am anxious. I brush it away. I look over my shoulder, there is a tiny rainbow breathing in between clouds. I do not want to believe, today. I am tired.
The physics of all these…
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So it’s that time of year again and once again I have moved interstate (actually this was over a month ago but I’ve been shockingly busy)… Thus is the life of the perpetual nomad.
I place the blame (or perhaps the gratitude) for my gypsy soul firmly at the feet of my father, if much of ones nature is hereditary then he and I make the nature vs nurture argument utterly irrelevant. When people ask me about my childhood home my first response is “Which one?”.
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