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I smell flowers. They cut through my thoughts and bring the clarity I crave. Flowers are complex - their growth, their need for loving and nurturing. The care I take is what someone else receives. I am paid in soft sighs and bright eyes that I never see, a loved one presenting my work combined with theirs; their thoughts, their love, their care. Birthdays, anniversaries, congratulations. Get better soon. I was just thinking of you, and I know you wish you had a rose garden, so I’ve brought you something to inspire you like you inspire me. I write my love poems with daffodils, chrysanthemums, sweet peas and birds of paradise. She is the sun and I turn towards her for light. I prefer middles over beginnings and ends. I never thought I would feel the same way about my days as I do about fictional characters’. There are the same builds, crescendos and lulls as a narrative. They are both tangible in my hands. Both experiences are uniquely my own. Just like someone else’s complex imagined adventure, I do not know where my own will take me, but I am delighted. I try things that are a little harder. I pick a novel gathering dust that I was never interested in before, but deserves a chance. I plant a seed, not a seedling. I go out on a limb, and she responds in kind. My life is a tangled web of chances, failures and triumphs. When flowers wilt, they are pressed into pages. Two parts of my life, two experiences that bookmark my days, come together. I step around the coffee table books stacked on one another, because it was the way my mother taught me. The more pressure, the more beautiful the end result will be.

84.11 Hearsay  

Our creative writing anthology.

84.11 Hearsay  

Our creative writing anthology.

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