by LJ Frank

An intimate story is like a soft breeze through an open window or door, in other moments it whispers or whistles through the cracks and crevices in the moment of a passionate embrace, the lightness of a thought whether eyes are closed or open, each second of each minute and each minute of each hour a story absorbs and expresses either a prelude, an apogee or coda to the meaning of the day that seeks to touch life;

Whether enclosed in a space within the architecture selected from my own accord or not, or berthed in some misty harbor lost in a dream or traveling across the threshold of an entrance or exit, the immediacy of my perceived reality is upon me and if I’m not careful I may find I am living as a participant in someone else’s tale, the question then is perhaps  – whether I will exemplify an existence other than my potential own, still all stories overlap on real or imagined stage of life with an empathic hope that the textures of comity, humanity and openness are shared;  

 Each word I hear and understand or read reveals a depth or shallowness and may cause a smile or tear as I envision what is worth translating and archiving in my brain, and…my thoughts become my body’s foremost healer as the story winds down at dusk, only to be revived in the middle of the night, for an encouraging idea inspires a worthy plot and the development of character in the otherwise existential, comedic, impassioned drama of life in which I find myself.