She loved strawberries. So much so that they became a part of her. When the rain was sparse a part of her shriveled. When the harvest was rich she glowed with pride. But one day circumstances prompted her to pack her bags and leave the strawberries. And a piece of her was left behind.

Writing is personal. Writing introduces you to the author, in hidden, light hearted, or staunchly serious ways. There’s a time and place for each approach. Let your writing stand as a unique reflection of you.

The call of the soul is a beautiful sound. Constantly humming its voice is heard all around. Pointing to a deeper need, which when ignored produced instability.

Traced back to the xa bitter aftertastewhat’s best left unsaid

Awestruck, to be struck speechless. This feeling doesn’t purely hold company with the brilliant, dazzling, one of a kind; it could hoist on its shoulders a commonplace item or something covered in rust. Regardless of the item, what is bound to follow is a face where hints of a smile frolic.