I am cut-off from society, by choice, and enjoying the solitude.  Not nutty, not so intense as believed. I'm an apron, having been used to hide children, dry tears, cover too large a man magnet when I am so shy.  I write, read, paint, bead, sew, garden (on a balcony), and hate to be seen. That feat has been difficult in my life time, terrified of this world I find myself having entered at my own request. "What have I done?"  How to answer that question is much like explaining middle C to one who has never heard music.  So I write and put away all I have encountered, leveling the dirty roads, and cleansing myself of grief. This web site is a frightening place for me, but a consolation that no one knows who I am, what I have done, the hauntings that come up out of rivers and reach for my hand.  Truth, so desperate to be relenquished, dries upon us like the drool of an old man coughing his last. I wear it, having once attempted to wash the stain, knowing the acid of carrying dying confessions becomes my own pennance. Instead, I write and I wait for absolution.

Survival