What is age? What is truth? What is time? If I feel like I’m 18, or 28, or whatever, why can’t I be?
We're always talking about "it." It is glorious outside. It is a shame. But what IS this "it"?
I woke up in utter confusion, my body half-off the bed, my mind buzzing with questions.
A discussion with the creator of the Misaviv Hebrew Circle Calendar.
2018, my optimism is as great as my fear. Be glorious, and grow no more.
A poem that squeezes humor and even transcendence out of my obsessiveness, ineptitude, and rotten choices. I'm guessing many can relate in various ways.
The passage of time is horrifying to face and acknowledge. But can it lead to something beautiful?
This is a strictly non-medical way of looking at pain relief.
Losing stuff, mean people, hair in my food... I rant a bit. And hope for something better.
This one goes out to all the people just trying to get through it
