The nightingale watched him like a hawk. The flautist took out his flute, and looking up at the nightingale, he said, “I shall play a tune to match the moonshine for you. You can sing along if you want.” The soothing sounds of the flute reached the far corners of the land. The nightingale became a shadow for it couldn't match the melodious composition of the song on the flute, a love song that awoke the night from its slumber. Please watch the short video of The Nightingale & The Flautist, taken from The Goddess of the Himavan, best-selling ancient & classical literature on Amazon. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=arpFUl7fJRU&t=57s Thank you for watching. Please subscribe, like, and share the video. Happy New Year, 2023 everyone.

Hi everyone, I'm Sraavani! I'm a highschool attending, academically overachieving, music loving writer with a huge interest in the sciences. I'm also a HUGE fan of Shakespeare and One Direction, and would love to rant for hours about either. Hit me up with a text! I'm always happy to chat 🙂

Television was the only source of the sound echoing all over the house. The channels were being kept changing between classical Indian music, sports and news by Rumi's father Ramesh. And on the other side, Rumi was sitting beside the window sipping the chai and enjoying her new storybook. 'The breakfast is ready!' exclaimed Brinda with ecstasy. Then, Rumi and her father went to the basin to perform the perfect five steps of washing their hands properly to protect themselves and the others from the prominent virus all over the world taking lives - the covid 19. After that, their faces were equally bored by eating the same recipe of poha for three days regularly. The storage of food had decreased due to the scarcity in the corona time. Minutes proceeded with only the sound of ticking clocks and then they heard footsteps coming from the stairs. 'Good morning !' Ananda said. Ananda had come to travel all over Kolkata but he was stuck because of the lockdown all over the world. Suddenly seeing her uncle, Rumi's innocent face turned dull. Her fingers were shaking, and the spoon in her hand clunked loudly onto the floor. She took it hastily and left the room to the kitchen by running. Rumi was staring at the fan circling above her head making whirring sounds. She was listening to music and wanted to delete all the noises in all the world and her screams in her head. The sweet girl was spending her abundant time thinking about death. Her eyes were watering and seemingly nobody knew the reason. She was clasping her thighs and pushed her nails into it, there became prominent red marks when she heard a knock on her door and as a reflex, she covered herself up, covered the strikes with her ladybugs printed pants, wiped out her tears, paused the playlist and went to open the door. Brinda came with a plate of freshly cut mangoes from their garden and gave it to the hands of Rumi. Mom: 'Is there anything you want to tell me?' Rumi was awestruck for a moment. Although she tried to tell everything but converted the discussion to her studies. 'I am fine ma. I am a bit late in my studies but I will cope up. Mom: ' Yeah, I noticed that too. This is the first online test where you got a b grade in maths, you have always got a grade in all your subjects' Me: 'Ma, I said Nah! I will improve ' Mom: ' Ok, I told this to your uncle and he said he will help you with mathematics from today .' Rumi was petrified, panic-stricken. The hair stood on end, her heart was in her mouth. She was standing there without motions and shaking like a leaf. She broke into a cold sweat, and she could not open her mouth to speak a word also. In the crisis going on the whole world because of the pandemic, all people were facing different troubles in their lives. There were fewer oxygen tanks for patients suffering from the disease and for Rumi - there was less oxygen in her lungs as well, in her house, in her home. She could not breathe. In the evening, she sat stiffly by her uncle to learn maths. The scary sight was being nearer to Rumi in disguise of Ananda's hand. He was pointing one hand to algebra and with the other hand, he was brushing little Rumi's shoulder with his thumb. His hands were going up, stroking the little neck of Rumi. He snatched one strand of her hair and was twirling it. His evil fingers were being circled onto the girl's face. Then the hands were reaching for down. Ananda was scratching Rumi's soft neck with his claws, and then the hand was crawling inside her turtleneck top, towards her bra strap. Rumi's legs ceased, her voice fell silent, she could not make a sound also. All was numb from her head to the nails of her legs, the fingers were cold, and she was sitting with a closed door behind. Wearing the turtleneck top on this hot summer day and full leggings also not protected her, she thought to herself. She felt that her uncle was not stuck in her house in the lockdown, she was - she was stuck in the lockdown in her own home. She tumbled, fell and fled to the bathroom and shouted hard. Rumi was moaning, screaming and sobbing. She was slapping herself and was trying to rip down her full clothes. Brinda and Ramesh came down horrifically and was banging the door. Rumi finally found the courage, she came out unhurriedly, pointed her tiny fingers to her uncle Ananda and let out all the pain ' He harassed me, he tried to rape me, he had touched my thighs before and now he is trying to touch all parts of the mine. ' After some prominent calmness, the storm came. Rumi's father's rage was coming out, his eyes became red with trickling water. Ramesh took Rumi in his arms and caressed her hair. Brinda's eyes were flowing with water, she squeezed Rumi and took her into her core. Ramesh just uttered some words which were so straight and severe to not her uncle but her rapist; ' You will get the place you deserve. A police station or better death. Now take all and leave at this instant only. '

Television was the only source of the sound echoing all over the house. The channels were being kept changing between classical Indian music, sports and news by Rumi's father Ramesh. And on the other side, Rumi was sitting beside the window sipping the chai and enjoying her new storybook. 'The breakfast is ready!' exclaimed Brinda with ecstasy. Then, Rumi and her father went to the basin to perform the perfect five steps of washing their hands properly to protect themselves and the others from the prominent virus all over the world taking lives - the covid 19. After that, their faces were equally bored by eating the same recipe of poha for three days regularly. The storage of food had decreased due to the scarcity in the corona time. Minutes proceeded with only the sound of ticking clocks and then they heard footsteps coming from the stairs. 'Good morning !' Ananda said. Ananda had come to travel all over Kolkata but he was stuck because of the lockdown all over the world. Suddenly seeing her uncle, Rumi's innocent face turned dull. Her fingers were shaking, and the spoon in her hand clunked loudly onto the floor. She took it hastily and left the room to the kitchen by running. Rumi was staring at the fan circling above her head making whirring sounds. She was listening to music and wanted to delete all the noises in all the world and her screams in her head. The sweet girl was spending her abundant time thinking about death. Her eyes were watering and seemingly nobody knew the reason. She was clasping her thighs and pushed her nails into it, there became prominent red marks when she heard a knock on her door and as a reflex, she covered herself up, covered the strikes with her ladybugs printed pants, wiped out her tears, paused the playlist and went to open the door. Brinda came with a plate of freshly cut mangoes from their garden and gave it to the hands of Rumi. Mom: 'Is there anything you want to tell me?' Rumi was awestruck for a moment. Although she tried to tell everything but converted the discussion to her studies. 'I am fine ma. I am a bit late in my studies but I will cope up. Mom: ' Yeah, I noticed that too. This is the first online test where you got a b grade in maths, you have always got a grade in all your subjects' Me: 'Ma, I said Nah! I will improve ' Mom: ' Ok, I told this to your uncle and he said he will help you with mathematics from today .' Rumi was petrified, panic-stricken. The hair stood on end, her heart was in her mouth. She was standing there without motions and shaking like a leaf. She broke into a cold sweat, and she could not open her mouth to speak a word also. In the crisis going on the whole world because of the pandemic, all people were facing different troubles in their lives. There were fewer oxygen tanks for patients suffering from the disease and for Rumi - there was less oxygen in her lungs as well, in her house, in her home. She could not breathe. In the evening, she sat stiffly by her uncle to learn maths. The scary sight was being nearer to Rumi in disguise of Ananda's hand. He was pointing one hand to algebra and with the other hand, he was brushing little Rumi's shoulder with his thumb. His hands were going up, stroking the little neck of Rumi. He snatched one strand of her hair and was twirling it. His evil fingers were being circled onto the girl's face. Then the hands were reaching for down. Ananda was scratching Rumi's soft neck with his claws, and then the hand was crawling inside her turtleneck top, towards her bra strap. Rumi's legs ceased, her voice fell silent, she could not make a sound also. All was numb from her head to the nails of her legs, the fingers were cold, and she was sitting with a closed door behind. Wearing the turtleneck top on this hot summer day and full leggings also not protected her, she thought to herself. She felt that her uncle was not stuck in her house in the lockdown, she was - she was stuck in the lockdown in her own home. She tumbled, fell and fled to the bathroom and shouted hard. Rumi was moaning, screaming and sobbing. She was slapping herself and was trying to rip down her full clothes. Brinda and Ramesh came down horrifically and was banging the door. Rumi finally found the courage, she came out unhurriedly, pointed her tiny fingers to her uncle Ananda and let out all the pain ' He harassed me, he tried to rape me, he had touched my thighs before and now he is trying to touch all parts of the mine. ' After some prominent calmness, the storm came. Rumi's father's rage was coming out, his eyes became red with trickling water. Ramesh took Rumi in his arms and caressed her hair. Brinda's eyes were flowing with water, she squeezed Rumi and took her into her core. Ramesh just uttered some words which were so straight and severe to not her uncle but her rapist; ' You will get the place you deserve. A police station or better death. Now take all and leave at this instant only. '

Let's talk about hatred Let's have a conversation without restraint Have you ever noticed your enemies are always nearby? Have you noticed you could get more support from a stranger passing by? I mean think about it, ponder your deepest conscience Is your friend really your friend? Think for a bit, be more conscious Is family really family? Blood might be thicker than water However, the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb Don't be fooled by a smile I struggle to find a simile for loyalty Those nearer are the ones with intentions farther from what's best for you Those farther are the ones that might accommodate you, no strings attached Society is filled with strings, not elastic strings, brittle ones Help rendered is usually tethered to a short, conditional leash They want you to do well but not better than them Break the leash, break the strings of misery, unleash your best Is company really necessary? Ill rather simple solitude than complicated pairings Evil comes in twos, good comes in singles Who am I to advise you? Heed my words, watch your back, misery loves company

Skepticism is my first memory of this virus. In the Balkans people are specific, everything that is far from our eyes is far from our hearts. However, in a few months, the virus arrived in our country. I remember the day when the teachers at the school told us that we would not go to school for a while until the virus receded. It was Friday, the day my city's cafes were full. There is a special atmosphere in the city, everyone becomes more lively and can't wait for the weekend and night parties. This Friday was similar to all the previous ones, but what would follow after that was completely new and unknown. In addition to online classes, I decided to finish my script I had been working on for the previous year. Also I started walking along the beautiful river Morača, which I stopped visiting a long time ago. As I started to grow up, I moved away from river. In quarantine, I decided to return to it and I can say that these walks were an inexhaustible treasure of inspiration for me. I am from Montenegro and I am proud to have been born in such a country, carved in stone, surrounded by mountains and we have a wonderful sea. We represent a natural paradise on Earth. I am writing all this because I want to say one big apology to the nature around me, the nature that I began to forget when I started growing up. Did I become more spiritual or calmer because of those walks? I'm not sure, but one thing I do know was I was happy, and that's ultimately the only thing that matters. I go down to the river and sit next to it. The river is narrow, surrounded on both sides by a rocky bank, it is very fast and small whirlpools can be seen. There are more people around me, and I remember that when I was little, only we children played there, there were no adults. I decided to sit by the river and enjoy the silence for a few minutes. All the anxiety caused by quarantine and rapid changes disappeared and a sense of peace ensued. I just felt that there was still life and that it was around us, that it, just like this river, flows, constantly and undisturbed. Then I decided to listen to some music and sing, and then read poetry. I read a farewell letter from Virginia Woolf and there were moments when I seemed to feel how much she was actually in pain and suffering from her illness. I remembered my anxious and weeping nights, for it is probably in the nature of man to understand another's pain most easily through his torment. Then I started reading poems, most of them were poets from the former Yugoslavia, just their sensibility and their reflection on life is closest to me. I cried, laughed and felt alive. I was in quarantine, I didn't see friends, I was often nervous, but by that river I felt alive and my own. Books and poetry are my two great loves, but I am generally a lazy person and there was a period when I neglected reading and writing, however in quarantine I became aware of this and decided to correct it. For a start, I started reading for school. One of the best books I have read and thought about for a long time and I still often remember is the book "The Bridge on the Drina" by the great Nobel laureate Ivo Andrić. I am not ashamed that I have not read that book before, even though he is the only Nobel laureate from our region and one of the greatest writers of the 20th century. I think this was the right time for that. I devoted myself in detail to reading all the chapters and jotting down important facts and quotes. I came up with completely new life-saving insights. In fact, it was only through the novel, which describes the origin and events on and around the bridge through four centuries, that I realized that history and human destinies are repeated only through different forms, but their essence is the same. After the readings, I dealt with the question of human existence. What is actually true? Is life in itself absurd given that everything ends in death and that your life is no different or special from the people who lived before you, nor from those who will live after you? Is life beautiful simply because it is unexpected, which gives us the right to feel love, happiness, admiration, the magic of sincere touches and kisses? I believe more in the latter, but I do not know the truth, and I guess the beauty is in that ignorance. Many tears have been shed in the last few months because the dead have been taken in columns, people have lost their jobs, because children have become hungry, because they are more and more depressed and worried, because the world is becoming a bus that people can't drive. Watching people from my and other countries die, I realize that it's not just a common virus or flu, that it's not just a political farce, that it's our painful reality that we weren't ready for. That is why we can only rely on mutual love, solidarity and faith in medicine and in a better future.

The personification of depression The realization of regression 
I digress I write not to impress 
I write from the heart From my cold beating heart 
I write with all my heart So as this ink spills with each pump 
Each spill spills with purpose Purposeful intentions 
Let me weave ideas you can visualize Let me give your heart eyes 
So you can see what you feel If you could eat empathy, would you eat your fill? 
The world is dark now That's why we stumble and try to feel our way through 
We can never get through  The top is miles away 
We strive for the pinnacle Blocking each strife is a different obstacle 
The only way to blast through these hurdles Is hands around each other, championship team huddle 
I mean we have to work together We have to step up 
I mean we have to walk together No sooner should our power be collective 
Shall our collection of disappointment cease No opportunity shall pass without being seized 
In a world full of Brutus's we're all Caesar So come off your high horse Step down the throne Trade-in your olive leaf crown for an olive branch 
The tree of life Infinite branches, but still we shade  Unveil your shadow, own your past Walk into your future head first Each step should not be your last Walk the sands of time and leave a mark that lasts

Blood on the leaves The story of our lives I put my pen to paper I shed a tear with my ink I'm about to tell a story A story about the future and history Place your hand in mine Take a walk with me in the sunshine The sun rays hit the grass blades The wind whispers to the grass in the everglades Wait a minute Listen to the birds chirping in synchrony to our heartbeat Talk about melody Talk about an out of body symphony These are my isolated thoughts whilst in isolation Take a walk with me underneath the clouds This is an age-old tale A tale of humanity Humanity is in dire need of a new world order What do you see? Brother fighting brother We are all equal in the eyes of our grand architect Man always chases the bigger picture Man is always in search of greener pasture In this erratic pursuit of perfection, we only attain the edge of our potential Man is his harbinger of doom Humanity is in dire need of a restructure of action As we walk, our foot scrapes the pavement Look around and hear nature lament Perhaps there is hope on the horizon The sun sets blood red, it's a new dawn Blood on the leaves The story of our lives

What a beautiful morning, the smell of the hibiscus flower drifts through the fresh, crisp air. Such an inviting fragrance. Birds and insects fly around in no particular direction, the cock crows as the gold rays of the sun filter through the pale blue sky. The sound of nature's orchestra conducted by the supreme being plays through the environment. I stare up, squinting as I try to count the wispy cotton clouds. “Ada steady your head!” She says to me in a very patient voice. “Sorry, granny,” I reply ashamed. I am ashamed because she is so patient and gentle with me. I steady my head as I position my little plump body firmly between her knees. I let my hands caress her old legs. My fingers graze her protruding veins around her ankles. I try to feel every scar until I reach her knee and give it a gentle tap. I feel safe and secure between mama Adeola's knees. It is the most warm and inviting place in the world. Her fingers move through my hair, slowly and steadily. She completes one braid, then parts with a dark brown comb and starts another. Her mother had used the same comb on her, and I will use it on my daughter one day. While she braids, she pauses to sip some warm ginger beer from a yellow glass beside her, I know she is about to tell me a story. She hands me a peppermint, first unwrapping the orange wrapper for me. I smile and joyously rattle the smooth candy around my mouth. Minty flavor explodes in my mouth as I listen to granny tell me a story of the dog and the cat, as she completes another braid. “One night a witch visits a man at night, the witch leaps over the fence, and flies through the night sky on her broom to his window. Standing at the entrance is a dog. It barks at the witch and attacks it ferociously, telling it to go away. The witch flies away angrily. On another night, the witch flies to another house. Guarding the entrance is a black cat. The cat stares with its yellow eyes at the witch, purrs softly, and lets in the witch. The witch smiles a wicked smile and performs her enchantments around a sleeping man. She leaves out the window, with the cat perched on her broom, and they fly over the treetops towards the moon. So this is why in our society, the dog is our best friend, and people think cats are evil dear Ada.” Granny says to me. “Are cats really evil?” I ask. Granny lets out a chuckle. She is done with my braids now, I bring my tiny hands to my head and pat my braids. I look up at granny, and we smile at each other. I never want these moments to end. The moments did end. My granny passed away ten years ago in her sleep. I sit by my window on Sunday mornings, reminiscing about her calm voice and ginger beer breath. I miss her stories, and I miss her. Not even the humming of bees can cheer me up. A teardrop escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek. My heart aches as I long for the Sunday mornings on her porch. I can hear a soft meow, I turn around and hug my cat Adeola.

Today the Ghost Heart Literary Journal was officially born under the editorialship of Melissa Jennings. This poetry of publicstion features among other poems the poem of my photographic art called “Stained Glass” which I am happy has a good home now. I love that photograph but you have to look into the heart of it to appreciate the wonder of its design set in brick. Just follow this link to a free issue of Ghost Heart Literary Journal including my “Stained Glass.” http://payhip.com/b/ngls

When I tell people I want to study classics, they give me weird looks. “What?” “That's so random.” And I agree; it's completely and totally random. Like many competitive schools nowadays, my classmates — including me — are hyper STEM-focused. Here, you'll find Robotics flyers posted on twenty-three different Instagram stories, enthused student officers screaming at you to sign up for Finance Club, news alerts about our national championship Math Madness team and the like. There's this newfound belief (read: pandemonium) that STEM education holds the key to a secure, prosperous future. And if the pop-up of private, $30k/year schools with STEM-focused, Advanced-Placement-driven curriculums aren't indicative warning signs, I'm not sure what is. A belief? Maybe. I think it's a madness. I've spent most of my time delving into the world of science and math. So I'm not knocking on the merits of STEM education at all; my chemistry research mentors and Science Olympiad advisors would be at the very least offended if I threw away their gifts of knowledge like that. Yet, there's something lost in the neglecting of humanities; in a sea of future mathematicians, entrepreneurs, and engineers like myself, I can count the number of history/literary hopefuls I know on one hand. My interest in classics is recent. I've only just begun to delve into the two-thousand-year-old world, and I'm only starting to put together the pieces of the field's significance. For the most part, classics, like other non-STEM fields, is soothing. It's fun and interesting. I'm fully aware that there's genuine passion and fulfillment in crunching numbers and solving physics problems, but the arts and humanities just strike a different chord — one of free expression, boundless imagination, and infinite understanding. Unlike STEM, I believe classics is relevant in teaching the value of us — our past, our motivations, our fate, our dreams, our limitations — through the lens of myths. As Homer famously says in the Iliad, “Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is the man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.” Classics, unlike many liberal arts fields, draws value in stripping away deceptions and cloaks; it gives us raw anguish and emotion, dissimilar to modern works, which arguably encourage an understanding of complex historical context. But the field of classics is fundamental — there is nothing prior, only other myths in context. As the basis of Western literature and really, civilization, classics is incredibly crucial to unlocking the secrets of famous works. T. S. Elliot's well-known “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” makes clear references to Hesiod's Work and Days and opens with Dante's Inferno — the latter of which literally features Virgil throughout. Elliot also makes references to Shakespeare's Hamlet, which cites the Fall of Troy (the Aeneid), among other allusions I definitely missed. Mind. Blowing. (Or am I just a nerd, and this epiphany only surprising to me?) I imagine the average Biopage reader is well-read; if not specifically in classics, at least with contemporary literature, modern journalism, and the sort. It's something I aspire to be. And for me, and all my fellow science nerds, perhaps the best way to find ourselves is by reconnecting with our roots — even if it's old, dead, white men.

People have been writing stories for as long as four thousand years. We all at some point in our lives have turned to literature to reflect on human nature, to find meaning in life or to find stories that are similar to ours. Works of literature from every era of history contain the collective experience of being alive and the frustrations that come with it. Greek tragedies are not an exception to this. The three great tragedy writers of Ancient Greece; Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides have all explored the meaning of human life in their plays. Twenty-four centuries ago, Euripides was asking the questions through his plays, the same questions we still ask ourselves. Although Euripides's way of writing was less poetic compared to Aeschylus and Sophocles; his work has a very unique approach to human nature. In his play Orestes, the gods have an active role in human life. Gods are portrayed as cruel, hypocritical and flawed; as beings that put human lives into complicated situations where right and wrong are intertwined with each other. Orestes falls desperate in the face of his fate and this represents the injustice of the gods. His desperation is entirely relatable as we all feel powerless from time to time in the face of events that we cannot control. Whether a person is religious or not, being human brings a sense of rebellion towards the injustices of our sufferings, after all most of us do not believe we deserve the terrible things that fall upon us. This condition is brought forward in Euripides's plays with the instability of gods. Hippolytus is a play about a woman's love for her stepson, Hippolytus. Phaedra is in a situation which she has no control over, so she plans to keep her love a secret because she does not want to be dishonored by her inappropriate feelings. Euripides sees love as dangerous, an undeniable force that brings misfortune. As J. A. Spranger puts it in The Attitude of Euripides towards Love and Marriage: ‘'His disapproval of love as an irresistible passion he shows in three choral odes- in the Iphigeneia in Aulis, the Hippolytus…'' When her maid finds out about Phaedra's secret, she tells Hippolytus, but makes him swear to not tell another soul, since the consequences would be disastrous. Hence a conflict arises within Hippolytus; he is outraged by how terrible a thing Phaedra could feel, but he did swear an oath to not say anything. It is important to mention here that Hippolytus' conclusion of this revelation is that women are terrible, so it does carry misogynistic aspects, in that he fails to recognize that it is not just a woman's nature to fall victim to desire but rather it is a collective human experience. But Euripides highlights the issue of free speech and its impact on events. When Hippolytus decides to break his oath, Phaedra writes a note saying Hippolytus raped her and hangs herself. As he is sent to exile because of her note, we see the consequences of his decision. The question arises; was Hippolytus right in breaking his oath or was he doing the right thing by freely speaking? Euripides presents the dilemma of free will, where sometimes the right and the wrong thing to do isn't clear. As much as there are events that happen beyond these character's control, like the gods' influence and a lack of control over emotions, we see that there are choices to be made that come down to free will. King Theseus, in The Suppliant Women is a just and rightful ruler, as he accepts to help the wives of the soldiers that have fallen in the battle of Thebes. The women want to properly mourn their husbands but King Creon forbids it. Theseus attack Thebes and gives the women the rightful burial of their relatives. But in doing so a lot of his own soldiers die, even though he did the right thing there were a lot of casualties. He seems to accept the cost of what he has done, but others don't feel the same. This brings forward the complexity of life, while Theseus did the right thing, his good deed does not bring happiness to everyone. But should he have not helped the suppliant women? Can we not achieve happiness even if we choose to do right? Euripides' play challenges the meaning and the costs of happiness which highly relates to real life. He seems to have a dark understanding of human happiness and it is a realistic understanding nonetheless, but just like how someone's happiness might not reduce another's sorrow, the grief of another does not reduce the achieved happiness. Looking at it in this light, it doesn't seem so dark but still remains realistic. The complexity of human life is filled with many questions and many answers and sometimes no answers at all. To look at the works from many years ago as we looked at some of Euripides' plays, it is obvious that humans have long been searching for a meaning to everything in life. His work offers some insight as well as asking new questions about the human condition.

Why is it you hide? Surely you didn't believe that you'd slide without saying your goodbyes? “To what?” you might ask; to all that you have so forcefully coursed into the darkest depths of your being. Those goodbyes. And I'd favor in making the conclusion that, well, you've never really tried. But unfortunately you're obliged— If you ever truly want to make it out alive. Because there are only so many lies able to be told until your soul is crying out, “behold, I'm terribly cold and frankly, all alone.” Heed my warn, you will make yourself known continuing on the path with that pathetic show. I can assure. Because I'm the one with the front row view and the behind the scenes news in the life of, well, you. I'm stumped on the fact how someone such as your own could manage to stoop so low. Fooled to the point of delusion; Foolishly bamboozled. So proudly reigning over the phrase, “The only way is up.” It's a painful sight for me to see—you dreadfully foreshadowing that what you believe to be, is in fact, the key. But I'm afraid it's not. That place you call up isn't really up. It's down. And each time you kid yourself not, you're only digging yourself further into the ground. So why not prowl it all out now? 'Cause if you keep pretending that nothing's ever gone south, you'll fall of the map. Best put on your big boy pants to save your ass; I hate to be so crass. But I can promise you that no one else will go digging unless it's for gold and theirs to own. We can agree to disagree. Although, I'm sure you already know, that you're the only one who knows what's really been lurking beneath your surface and that it's surely not gold—yet. Maybe fools. But the part you've continued to leave out to yourself is the biggest Easter egg in this game we call life. And if it's a game of hot and cold you're freezing right now; secretly hauling to be thawed. “How can this be reversed, this curse?” You ask. Well, it's as simple as in the fact that you must to do the work. And eventually you will realize what you thought to be of the dammed, was your blessing in disguise and, in fact, the most magnificent of them all. But it's your call. Think it through before you chew 'cause it's a hard pill to swallow and there are more than a few. But I promise you that soon you will wallow in a muncher victorious tune. You see, all of the riches you search for have been with you since long before. It just so happens that some appear roughed out and others bling at first sight. Some you'll have to tend more than the rest but each holds a part of you that can't be bought and worth a ton. So, I beg of you, halt the blues and carefully attune because in this matter, I cannot afford to be misconstrued. You are what shines brightest when being unapologetically you. That's the truest of true. Bask in your worth and the rest will follow. I'll leave you to it, to meet yourself and find each and every hidden pearl that makes you, the youest of you. And you will soon come to realize that it never really was about tomorrow; only a role that was unwittingly presumed. So, Riddle me this: How much longer will you cower at your power to make anew? Sincerely, Your Helper from above.

Mystic Reflections is the story of a twelve-year-old who lives in a world where everything is in abundance, and all are equal. Yet, she encounters a problem. Then begins a journey in search of a solution. What can be a problem in a world of perfection? What will be the solution? Who will solve it? https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07MY88S2R?pf_rd_p=2d1ab404-3b11-4c97-b3db-48081e145e35&pf_rd_r=QZ7E1JVXM97VHPPRVMC0

I don't know remember exactly when and how it started. Perhaps it never had a beginning but had always been a part of my soul. Books had captured my attention since infancy and stories lived on my tongue from the moment I could string a sentence together. The exact day I began jotting down poems in my school notebooks, doesn't matter. I was only releasing the steady current of words from my mind and watching them trail across the paper as they came to life. I can't recall how old I was turning the birthday that I received one of my favorite gifts. My grandma had given me a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson. I had never heard her name before, but her words would lead me deeper into the literary world. I was young and couldn't understand every poem, but I often got lost in that thick book as Emily taught me her own rules about grammar, romance, and life. As an English major, I would later learn a lot more about the immortalized poet. I wondered about her life in her room, peering from her window. Did she know what impact her words would have on the world? Who would have guessed that a recluse would play such a big role in helping a little girl grow in her love for writing and reading poetry? When studying Emily in college, I felt as though I was being reunited with an old friend. The taste of her words on my tongue brought back the musty smell of the book pressed against my face as I laid on the floor of my childhood room. Long before her words had really made much sense to me, they had awoken the poet inside. Not a skilled poet by any means, but a poet who understood the depth of life by giving breath to her thoughts, concerns, joys, and fears. Like the poets of English classes and beloved anthologies, my poetry was a showcase of growth and the evolution of a woman. They started out as descriptions of nature sceneries from the eyes of a child living in the suburbs. As an early teen, they grappled with life and the confusions of adolescence. When waves of depression came, my poems matured and darkened with themes of death, suicide, and a heartbreaking desire to be loved and understood. I continued to grow, and my poems became museum exhibits of old loves. As I became a wife and mother, they talked about the struggles and joys of marriage and motherhood, supporting me during the hard days and preserving the beautiful ones. I will forever be in debt to the shut-in who opened me to the world of poetry. The woman who opened her mind so that other could see what she saw from her bedroom window. The writer who planted seeds of inspiration. I wonder if she's wandered through the gallery of my poems. Did she too witness the evolution of a girl to a woman through words? Was she able to see traces of herself in my works; able to trace my progress back to the anthology of her works, that sat near my bed for many years? I will watch my poetry continue to evolve as I do. It will carry the years, hardships, and blessings of my life until we are buried together. While my poems may not be analyzed in lecture halls or studied by scholars, they once lived, and that's enough for me. They lived because Emily awoke them within me, and together we breathed life into their lungs.