They tell you of riches, paint stories of success but what they don’t tell you is what it costs to get there.  Sitting here, in this spinning chair once again as I did all last summer, it hits me, again.  The life of me, my life, the life I am supposed to live cannot or rather will not be like this.

As I look out of the door, I see grays and browns and whites, the colors of a desolate field where Hope wins no battles.  I wonder if they are happy, I mean they are comfortable, I suppose, but doesn’t there come a time where even comfort isn’t comfortable?

Hmm…I wonder, anyway, a lesson to all I suppose is to keep doing what you started doing, what you really, honestly, truthfully, want to do.  For when you stop, the zombies win, so I guess, I’d better keep writing.

Whimsically Yours,


P.S. The Maze (pt.1)

Written by Patrice

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