i whispered your worth in the dark places i carried your bones in the sky far below the place where God sits and the souls of children weave star lilies in the wild after. the soft touch of fingers ghost over your eyes while you sleep and this lullaby pours from my lips a song i have sung before to different ears than yours a spell of my own making self-taught wisdom and the memory of sweeter hands lifting me from the deep this prayer is born in a place of silence and scars. oh Father, forgive me for I know the darkness well let me walk through the valley of shadows but bring this little one beneath my lullaby close against your heart.
Hello dear future. I started to give life to my story and its characters as some form of refuge for myself. I did what I had to do. It was somewhat instinct and what I write now might be the exegesis of that, years after contemplation: I saw no way for myself to be able to connect to others. I was torn apart, and no one seemed to be interested in dirty rags. I was too much work. Or would have been. And I agree. I was alone and it was either working on myself or getting rid of me and – yes – it was a lot of work. Only some time later did I start to realise that I was giving my problems to said characters. And because, as I assumed, no one would be interested to read a story where problems just disappear with a flick of the finger, I had to start thinking about solutions. Stringent solutions. Nowadays I consider my intention refined. I write to offer others hope. Good, if they just have fun. That’s, of course, fine as well. I may be (or might have been, when you read this) a fool to
