I took my time walking the aisles, pondering all the genres and stopping to wonder upon the authors set aside for their awards. I don’t know how long I stood staring at science fiction before it dawned on me. I was crying.

Maybe I was looking for something particular because I seemed to recall a woman telling me a story of aliens or dragons and how it related to socialism, how it was more real than science fiction and how science fiction is often described that way.

I couldn’t remember the title or author, so I kept looking for something else until spotting The Alchemist misfiled. Unexpected sorrow overcame me, the grief that sometimes lingers after we tell our story, not because we shared it but because we know that as long as we are alive, it can’t be written without prejudice to our own experiences and perceptions. We know it can only be as honest as we are with ourselves, but even our honesty has integrity enough to know that honesty and truth are interchangeable, malleable, and unfixed. All that we write is both false and sincere.

We tell the stories anyway because we must produce cultivar-like histories, that they are easily digested and regurgitated. If we reveal a newer truth each time we uncover our hearts and if we continue planting seeds where we’ve allowed the sun to shine, then it’s with a promise that new worlds will be sown.

Hence we write more, love more, lose more, and live more, never knowing how much more we must go on. This is why there can never be one story. The evolutional marriage of man’s virtues and failures can never find a hard stop on the final page of one book.

The tears from my birth follow me unceasingly, lending me their eyes, remembering genetic wombs and falling on my lips to anoint me in man’s wounds but not in vain. Tears remind me that birth is never behind, never far ahead and never-ending. My teardrops fertilize romantic science-fiction dreams sampled in self-help and psychology.


Some are asked to choose between one of two masters to serve
Some are asked to choose from among more than this
Looking in the mirror we are asked to deny our reflection
To allow our lives to project who we serve



I am a mother. I am a father, and I am a willow tree.
Life is snake standing in my shade, believing it is safe.
I am an inquisitor, and I am an inquisition.
What winds will blow, allowing life to shed its skin of me?