Prologue - A novel in progress

Night 1.

            He came to him in a dream, wearing that same tight shirt and jeans he wore in that first picture he ever saw of him. In a sense, it was love at first sight. Fascinated by the skinny jeans, that weren’t too skinny but fit tidy, and that innocent, naïve smile, he clicked go and wrote a message that was responded almost instantly. It started there, and went somewhere and then nowhere all the same. He named him Red in his dream, because he could not remember what his name was in sleeping hours. Just as later, he would not be able to remember what his name was when he was awake, but would be able to easily tell you what his real name was.

The Hero Complex

Sometimes I wonder if the “need” to save someone is a factor that could influence “love”. We all need to be needed, but to what degree do we need to be needed in order for us to grow affection? Is this need illusory, and idealized?

Playing with creativity - The Luxury of Sadness

Its like things are pilling up. Rubble that has fallen from the hill is too overwhelming to take off you. Your arms are just too weak, they can’t keep up. In a matter of seconds you see the light vanish from the tomb. It went from blotches of light, to small specks, then nothing. You have no strength left. The air leaves your lungs, and its getting harder to breathe.