The Unlikely Buddha

 Let me take you on a magic carpet ride No silken carpet, stitched by hands unknown, But woven moonlight on a phoenix's down. With whispers of magic, we'll ascend the sky, Where stars like diamonds dance and planets sigh. Through emerald valleys, where dragons sleep, And crystal rivers secrets keep. On winds of laughter, past castles untold, With stories blooming, braver than gold. We'll chase shooting stars across the night, Their fiery whispers our guiding light. Past hidden waterfalls, where sirens sing, And wishes take flight on gossamer wing. No jeweled palace, but a moonlit bower, Where fireflies light each fragrant flower. With hearts entwined, beneath the Milky Way, We'll write our own love story, come what may. This magic we create, unseen, unheard, A tapestry woven with every shared word. So let us dance on stardust, wild and free, For the truest magic lies in you and me. With brushes dipped in dreams, we'll paint the sky, Our souls entwined, as colors dan...

  The words fall like shattered glass, each syllable a fragment of your heart laid bare. Dreams, whispered into the void, met with polite smiles that hold no echoes of your own yearning. Fears, confessed in the quiet moments, dissolve into the air, leaving only the hollowness of silence. You, a tapestry woven with threads of vulnerability, hang opposite a blank canvas, reflecting back only your own loneliness. The serpent of isolation coils tighter, its scales cold against your skin. You poured your essence into a well that held only dust, each shared detail, each unreturned confidence chipping away at the foundation of your hope. The realization cuts like a shard of ice, a truth as undeniable as the emptiness you feel. This was a solo performance, a song sung into the wind, its melody lost in the vast indifference. No embers of self-discovery flicker in the darkness. The tapestry remains unfinished, its threads trailing off into the abyss. The echoes of loneliness morph into a c...

The sunbeam shifted, painting a different corner of the worn rug, but Grumpus Maximus remained a motionless shadow, his familiar grumbles silent. My calloused hand brushed his fur, once thick and luxurious, now thin and brittle with age. No response, no indignant flick of the tail, no disgruntled purr. Just the stillness of a life snuffed out, leaving behind a void as vast as the galaxy above. Grumpus Maximus. The name itself, a testament to his personality. Not a cuddly lap cat, but a grumpy emperor, ruling his sunbeam dominion with disdainful stares and the occasional swat. A constant, a furry companion who filled the quiet of my days with his unique brand of grumpy presence. He wasn't much for words, this feline curmudgeon. But his silence spoke volumes. A flick of the tail meant annoyance, a slow blink, grudging affection. He'd bat at my slippers, a silent protest against my shuffling gait, and I'd pretend to be startled, just to see his indignant puff of fur. He was a ...