His polished apple green eyes shone beneath his hat brim The color of a clear blue sky. A white shirt covered his chest up to his chin. Queued in line that day And to tell you now the truth of what I found While I stood impatient and late In a restaurant now burned to
From which neuroses did this fear grow from and how do I continue to kill the weeds before they take over the fertile garden of my mind? Does fear fertilize the same physical mutations in which cancer grows best? Maybe these connections strengthen or weaken our immunity to pain and illnesses. I’ve come to believe there’s no such thing as a mind-body connection, because the mind (in my mind) is the body and the body is the mind. There’s no schism that separates the two, not even the blood brain barrier.
The blank page: at times a writer’s inanimate nemesis. The written output, the writer’s words lend themselves to an infinite life with inasmuch potential. This simple premise suggests a complex hypothesis: a writer’s output can bridge the gap between art and science, alchemy and physics, space and time. The writer becomes a telepath sending messages