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I am writing a novel that is rewriting me.
Death is the only true magician.
Dreams need to be ripped open, their layers discarded like gift-wrap in order to come true.
Happiness is not created. It is uncovered.
Words should be harvested like crops.
Being mindful makes my mind full.
Breath is a gift that stokes the fire of life.
I am human. I know nothing.
I worked hard for my sanity.
I rescued words from deep ends.
I travelled, got unravelled, travelled again.
Chased my roots, roots chased me.
My plans made their own plans.
Universe conspired with life on lessons.
Loved life. Death loved life too.
Love thrived, tears nourished, hope breathed.
Happiness wrestled past for the present.
Writer, thirty four, came of age.
2015, be good to us all.
Here’s to love, laughter, kindness, compassion.