My students have found my blog. I feel my literary world and professional world obliterate each other and the line that existed forever gone. These perfect bubbles I have lived in are destroyed as the worry of parental complaints and protest. As a teacher you feel the weight of responsibility for those you teach as if they belong to you. My literary works are personal and not gossip. Will they recognize that in their tabula rasa state? some will while others will not and I am forced to confront a truth. My writing is public and I have chosen this stage. I must write with pride as I come out of the wings and stand center stage. I will not be silenced.
I know I trade what I want for what I need. We always trade but I believe few of us want to acknowledge it. What am I trading today? Or has simply the addition of children made the trading endless. I understand why Woolf wanted a room of her own.
I read your soul in your divine words and am honored to be let into your brilliant spark of life. I feel the weight of my soul. The soul always finds life again, a seedling is always left behind after obliteration to begin renewal. It is covered in scars and perfect. The soul can heal and it does reside in all of us so why do we resist the idea of our soul. We feel it exist within us but cannot name where it resides; the heart, the head or the base of our spine. Perhaps it is a romantic notion to believe in a soul. To believe that something dwells within all of us; something otherworldly, breathtaking and sacred. But when I read your words, I hear your spirit.
His suitcase a rainbow interior as he inspected his clothes with a fastidiousness reserved for the Mona Lisa.
Mom tried to hide his flaws with stories of bravado
I saw a vain, flirtatious and angry man
Her stories never compensated for the truth