short story
religious thoughts
born in the wrong era
timeless trampede
so little sacred
never going anywhere
price on the priceless
fantasy art






It is true that I complain - I complain a lot. I want to look at it and stop it at once. But, perhaps it is a habit and habits are harder to kick than to acquire. I still have not licked my sugar habit. Nor a majority of low self-esteem.

Perhaps it will be the best for me to be constantly alone. While I can add somewhat to people's gardens, my complaints will blight it all and take so much away. I will forever create blighted gardens - greenery with splotches of black or read - spots of yellow - until I become the person I am meant to be. What is so hard to realize - what I have been blind to - is that the sole factor - the one person who limits me - is myself. My mother, her words, are just a ghost. I can watch people, in their frustrations, constantly jump up and down - for they see that I have come so far, that I am towards the end of my path - but now I just sit there, immobile, because I imagine and re-imagine the ghosts of my past. Of not my past but my imagined, my re-worked past. Of how I have taken every negative, blowing air into each, as if they were balloons and set them free. Of course, they were negatively charged, so the balloons sank about me, the lone leftover amidst the fallen balloons, the million balloons on the floor, after the party.


© 1990 - 2003 Katharina Woodworth

fantasy art