spilling secrets over tower bridge

The snow settled onto the chocolate brown of her hair, making her semblance even more magical than I had grown accustomed to. She tucked a strand delicately behind her ear and turned to face me.

“They will wave their hands in the air proudly and shout that the world was made for people like them and not for people like us, ” she began.

She paused slightly then and, despite the nature of the conversation, a soft smile appeared on her cherry lips.

“But, ” she added,
“what they won’t tell you is that the world was made by people like us, and not by people like them.”

We continued walking, our footsteps fading away quickly behind us. It occurred to me at that moment that I would likely never learn the art of understanding her.

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the artist’s dilemma

It is like the entire

world around you, and every

ground you walk on, and every

building you step foot

in is a glowing orb of

inspiration and you do not

know what to make from

it, how to shape

it with your

fingers, but still it

remains on the tip of

your tongue and so you

claw your nails into

your skin to carve it

out