H. Raven Rose

She held herself until the sobs of the child inside subsided entirely. I love you, she told herself. It will all be okay.

Leila dreamt that her Soul was on fire. It was not a nightmare. Shannon was in the dream. Shannon was telling her to wake up. She woke up, burning as if she had a fever, nearly soaking wet with sweat. Kevin was asleep beside her.

You are so sweet. This is unbelievable. Some schmo talks to you every two weeks, buys you a meal, during which he talks about himself, dry-humps you, touches your hand once and you think he smells like roses. Maybe he is a white knight on a steed, who will carry you off into the future, so you can live happily ever after and, finally, maybe get it on.

Life luscious wet life bereft of death, loss of empty shell minus absent of nothing exploding star cell amoeba sweet algae oxygen, hydrogen flowering in the vacuum ofspace and magnetic motion.

I hope that I capture something in my work that is about the elusive, the magical and powerful and the transformative. The writing in itself is transformative for me.

Oh, my god, he thought, realizing why he had always felt negatively towards Eden. She reminds me of my mother. The thought made his throat close up tight. He mused about the day's events. What a ride. Edward had surprised him. The man had courage, committing to love. What had he said to that starlet, none of it meant anything?

This is your karma. You do not understand now, but you will understand later. The source of pain is within your own larger expression of being.

Samantha reminds me of the difference between what is illusion and what is real. I am reminded whenever I forget that we choose our truth and whether to embrace it or not.

Writing isn't difficult. Writing well is difficult. What is most difficult is being with the interior experience that manifests as resistance to writing.

Oh, my god. My non-committal boyfriend, who I was just fucking this morning, that I want to spend the rest of my life with, is your Mr. Wonderful. He__ your __ice,_ mystery man. Jesus.

It hadn't ever been on the table. Commitment had never been an option. There was never any love.

I write because I am a writer, not because I want to get anything out of it.

When do we get to the part where I get inspired by this wonder boy and my seriously bitchy attitude toward men is miraculously healed?