Imagine being a caterpillar, and one fine day you’re all goo inside a chrysalis. “What’s happening to me?” you’d ask. Then, bingo! You’ve got wings, and you didn’t even ask for them. But hey, let’s make the best of these wings.
The seasons in New York can swallow you whole, but out of the blizzards and the sweat-soaked subways, something new takes shape. You don the mask of resilience and shed it when the winds change. The city takes, but in that taking, you find pieces of yourself you never knew existed.
He went to the bar every day. Same drink. The bartender got sick. A new girl came. She made drinks differently. He tried one. It was good. He changed his regular.
In silent corners of rooms, within the shadows cast by a single lamp, one finds myriad selves. Each self, a portrait never seen before, clamoring for breath. They dance, they weave, they dissolve, until, at last, rebirth – a symphony of colors yet untouched.
Making something new- you have to boil it down to it’s essentials, what makes a clock a clock, is it merely telling time or is there something about the circle and the twisting hands? Can we put colored sand in glass or does it need to tick?
What am I doing? There is obviously a cucumber slicing machine in the patents circa 1983, what am I smoking? “Me,” the oregano says. I sweep it until it sprinkles down like helicopter seeds.
Leaving Kugane was both the easiest and hardest thing Iojrao had ever done. She knew, of course, that staying wasn’t an option. She would have to leave it all behind if she was to find who she truly was, and not be held back by the person she was currently pretending to be.
Imagine being a caterpillar, and one fine day you’re all goo inside a chrysalis. “What’s happening to me?” you’d ask. Then, bingo! You’ve got wings, and you didn’t even ask for them. But hey, let’s make the best of these wings.
The seasons in New York can swallow you whole, but out of the blizzards and the sweat-soaked subways, something new takes shape. You don the mask of resilience and shed it when the winds change. The city takes, but in that taking, you find pieces of yourself you never knew existed.
He went to the bar every day. Same drink. The bartender got sick. A new girl came. She made drinks differently. He tried one. It was good. He changed his regular.
In silent corners of rooms, within the shadows cast by a single lamp, one finds myriad selves. Each self, a portrait never seen before, clamoring for breath. They dance, they weave, they dissolve, until, at last, rebirth – a symphony of colors yet untouched.
Making something new- you have to boil it down to it’s essentials, what makes a clock a clock, is it merely telling time or is there something about the circle and the twisting hands? Can we put colored sand in glass or does it need to tick?
What am I doing? There is obviously a cucumber slicing machine in the patents circa 1983, what am I smoking? “Me,” the oregano says. I sweep it until it sprinkles down like helicopter seeds.
“Why?” He asked
“What do you mean, ‘why’?”
“I just don’t get it. ‘Reinventing’ yourself. What does that even mean?”
Leaving Kugane was both the easiest and hardest thing Iojrao had ever done. She knew, of course, that staying wasn’t an option. She would have to leave it all behind if she was to find who she truly was, and not be held back by the person she was currently pretending to be.