When you can deny that this life
is really a gamble; luck of the draw
in a world of strange cliches and
flawed desires and hopes.

But that’s the beauty of being
young, isn’t it? The belief that
anything and everything is possible
if the cards fall into place
at just the right time.

We were fools, and that’s okay.
It’s that very foolishness
that lets us grow and understand.
That where our feet land may not
be where we’d planned
or dreamed, but it’s where
we are meant to be.

A sin in the eyes
of a Church that
the drugs pulled her
away from so viciously
that repentance only came
with her daughter’s
baptism.

A sin in the eyes
of her family,
devout and unforgiving
in true, religious form.
Acceptance found only
after two years
of toddler smiles and
curious giggles.

I shook my head,
taking a sip of my
drink before typing my
response.

Your baby girl
is the blessing you needed.
The wonder of a
new life to save
the very tired and abused
one you called normal.
Your baby girl
is your reason to live,
your reason to
find God again.

I let it sit on the screen,
waiting.

“So…
…
your kid…you don’t think
you’ve made a mistake?”

I grin.

I think I’ve been blessed.

The image of
imagination.
Because there is such
a thing.

It’s a sound
mingled with the mud
of a million vibrant
colours and
fractured rays of
light beaming from
hopeful eyes.

It’s the intangibly
describable flavour
of the perfect
day filled with
every possible
impossibility.

Oh yes, there is
an image
of imagination.
And you can see
it in the eyes
of anyone who still
remembers how to
dream.

That’s when experience counts
for nothing, and feeling is what
carries you through.
It’s the very thing that opens
the doors of the mystery
of a lifetime with someone
you yearn to know deeper than
you’ve cared to know anyone else.

But what’s the point
if you stop fighting?
If you never knew how
to fight to begin with?
Cowering in a corner,
unsure of scolding glances
and pained expressions
of love pitted against
the comfort of familiarity
no matter the disdain.

And you sit and stare
in utter confusion.
“I have no experience.”

I say,
man up.

But that’s the beautiful
thing about being alive
and breathing.
Walking in the summer
sun knowing
that everything
is with its purpose
and meaning.

And it came as
some unexpected
gift wrapped in shock
and wonder and confusion.
That purpose
found in the dreams
of a swaddled infant.

Information is a currency
more precious than any gem
or note.

And I’ll tell you now,
I’m a damned millionaire
if it’s information you seek.

But I’m no gossip
Talk is cheap
(as they say).
He said,
she said
is trite bullshit.

I deal in emotional scars
and deep seated issues.
That’s where the pay-off lives.

Somewhere behind your eyes
when you say daddy didn’t love you
(but that’s okay).
The keystrokes that etch token words
and glimmers of truth into an ill-thought
status…

those mean something.
At least if you’re like me.

Because I collect the pieces
of a person until I see the whole.

And then, I hold on tight.

Because information
is a precious currency.

But it’s a romance
that I have with
story tellers
and brilliant adventure
spurned on by having nothing
more than an imagination
and a day’s worth of food.

The oral traditions.
When worlds spun
like silk from seasoned
mouths and slipped
seamlessly from dastardly
tongues.

I miss the stories I
could never have been told.
Because I grew up
in the age of immediacy.

Of tweets and on-the-fly
updates of lives that seem
just a little less rich
than what they really could be.

Without the traditions
I never knew.

It isn’t often that I seriously ponder what people think when they see me. I made peace with my eccentricities a long time ago, and seldom give thought to the curious glances, half-hearted grins or snide remarks.

But today…today was undeniably entertaining as I found myself to be very much a curiosity to those around me. Then again, there was no surprise on my part. That’s what happens when you decide to carry an electric typewriter around on public transit. The thing was a beast of a machine, weighing in at roughly 10lbs (because a metal case is both chic and durable), and I’m rather petite. It sat on my lap, while I set my backpack beneath my seat and I was quite content with things as they were.

Curious glances turned into curious mutters between friends. A casual nod in my direction, or a more brazen point, left little to the imagination. I turned up my music. Closed my eyes. Understood.

Understood the paranoia of the Gonzo reporter as he drove a carload of nefarious goods along a desert highway, hoping to go by unnoticed. Not to say that I was in possession of such things. In fact, the worst one would have found in my bag would have been an unopened pack of cigarettes. Well, maybe an eyebrow or two would have been raised upon the discovery of the replica handgun buried beneath a few books, a bucket hat and a pair of sunglasses. No reason to be concerned though. Right? The transit police seldom search bags unless you smell of alcohol or weed. I smelled faintly of cherry blossoms if the label on my shower gel is to be believed. I would be inclined to say it has a faint watermelon undertone. I have yet to figure out how the two are related. Regardless, there was no reason to question what I may or may not have had in my possession today.

Just a strange girl, spending the early hours of the day riding the bus and train with a typewriter on her lap and a batman backpack at her feet.

Nothing to see here, people. I promise.

Tragedy is what you make of it
and you, darling, are no Ophelia
lost and floating in a lifeless pond.
You are not without stories,
but you are without reason
to call it in and use the world
around you as your great
and inspired crutch.

But you discovered the beauty
of a sympathetic heart.
Why not abuse it?
Why not come clamoring at the
doors of the willing with a cry of
“Help me! I’m wounded!”
Because you have tragedies written
deep within the marrow
and it seems right to bleed along
your path so you never have to take a step
with eager hands holding your head high.

You are no Ophelia, my dear.
You are no deep soul seated
at the foot of grace and wisdom.

Because if you truly understood your tragedy,
you would never stand and say
“It holds me back.”

I feel like a child, watching for figures in the sparks.
You know, like a cat or a genie or something else.
It’s always a dragon in the end. Don’t know why.
That’s just the way it works. Maybe because I was always more interested in the world of make-believe
and the wonders found in the smoke trail of a shriveled, burned out match. When the story of a solitary flame can last for hours in a lingering haze trapped under your nose.

That lonely little flame still flickers, though. Memories and magic long forgotten and my childish re-imaginings of gypsies and dragons and myths are reduced to ash and wax in the bottom of one of those fancy candle holders. Really, just a glorified shot glass.

And I realize that it’s late, and that flame is a hazard and no story. I can always light another match, you know. So I get up, forsaking the self-imposed hypnosis in favour of adult reason. Can’t let the flame burn out unattended. Can’t leave the room with an open candle just sitting there.

So I blow it out.

Leaving the scent of a hundred stories to linger for hours.