Roots (storyteller)

“Are you a teller?”

“Do you mean a confessor?”

“No. I mean a teller. A teller of stories?”

It seems fitting one should stop here and think, am I? Are we?  Someone once encouraged me to be a writer. She was a shield from the world. I hid behind her in fear. 

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Eyes pierce through tender skin, skin as transparent as vellum. One could see through the intricacies; blood flow and muscle tissue forming that lacked strength. Passersby would watch the skin peel away each day, parting a course for a larger skeleton that housed parts of her most ignored. Everyone but me. I saw more than I wanted to know. 

One in a million (along the seashore 7-11-2017)

Musings Photography

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