I dance with flowers in my hair. Feet pounding against the ancient grass, cold against my skin, sun blazing on my back. Through the wind spirits of other worlds whisper stories in my ear. My hand moves freely transcribing their words-mind blank, unguiding their truth, letting the prose flow. I have my genius. I am both warrior and child. Strength honed for my purpose as I tell my story’s truth. I trust myself. Other’s words or opinions are unable to penetrate my resolve. I know these stories must be told through my voice. I am guided by another force outside of my own, and I am grateful.
My chair rocks back and forth, clicking on the wooden porch as I overlook the land, green and plush, the promise of eternity and I feel a sense of home. My daughter and son laugh running through the rolling hills. My…
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