Life

Monday Morning Coffee

~ Natal Galvan

Isn’t it wild how the simplest of morning rituals, like brewing a cup of joe, can catapult you on a time-traveling adventure back to the days of yore? That’s exactly what happened to me this morning. As I savored the first few sips of my meticulously brewed French press coffee made with fresh ground coffee beans (from the mountains of Colombia!), a thought struck me – this doesn’t hold a candle to mom’s coffee!

Now, here’s the kicker. My mom, a superhero in disguise, single-handedly raised two kids while juggling three jobs. She didn’t have the luxury of buying coffee beans, let alone have the time for a grinder followed by simmering in a French press. Her magic potion? Instant coffee! A generous scoop from the big red plastic tub, a splash of boiling water, a quick stir, and voila! A steaming cup of black coffee, as is the custom for most Colombians.

While Cubans have their petite espressos, Colombians relish their ‘tinto’ – small shots of black coffee. But the coffee that had me reminiscing wasn’t her usual black brew. It was something special, something she made when she could steal a few extra moments.

She’d heat milk until it was frothy and fluffy, the likes of which I’ve never seen replicated on a stovetop. This creamy delight was then added to the coffee, creating a sort of ‘cafe con leche’. That was the coffee that had me lost in nostalgia this morning.

The memory was a bittersweet symphony, filling me with joy and a pang of sadness. Why the sadness, you ask? Because I know I’ll never taste that coffee again. Sure, my mom’s still around, but she’s traded her instant coffee for a more leisurely brew. I could try to recreate her masterpiece, buying the same ingredients, following the same steps that I’ve watched her do countless times. But deep down, I know it just wouldn’t be the same.

Isn’t life peculiar? The memories that fill us with the most joy often carry a tinge of sadness, simply because they’re experiences we can’t physically relive. But hey, that’s the beauty of nostalgia, isn’t it?

I’ve Only Got Two: Turning the Other Cheek

~ Natal Galvan

When you consistently display a forgiving and forgetful attitude, you unintentionally condition those around you to treat you as they see fit. This behavior reinforces the idea that their actions towards you, whether positive or negative, are acceptable and justified. By constantly turning the other cheek, you essentially signal to the world that it is acceptable to repeatedly mistreat you.

However, there may come a time when you no longer wish to maintain this passive stance. Eventually, you may become tired and decide to take proactive steps to protect yourself. This change in behavior can confuse and upset those who have become used to your constant tolerance. They may find it difficult to understand why you are suddenly showing assertiveness and inflexibility, and why you are no longer as understanding or willing to forgive and forget.

Eventually, you may reach a point where you firmly state that you will no longer tolerate such treatment. While some people may choose to abruptly end the relationship at this point, a more thoughtful approach involves introspection to identify how one’s own actions may have contributed to the development of such attitudes.

In recent years, since returning home, I’ve been forgiving and forgetting a bit too much. When you reach a certain stage in life, you start to evaluate what’s happening around you, and you gradually start to weigh what truly matters to you and what doesn’t. You begin to want to let go of things, conserving your energy for the things that truly matter to you. I stopped arguing and fighting over minor issues. In my view, if it won’t matter in a year, then why argue about it now? So, with this approach, I started to overlook the small lies of omission, or even the larger, more premeditated ones. I constantly put myself in others’ shoes, accepting their reasoning for what I felt could be interpreted as disloyalty, selfishness, and sometimes even scheming. I simply allowed others to be themselves, and if I discovered something unpleasant about them, I ignored it.

Now, those very same people are unable to do the same. They cannot set aside their own beliefs for others. They won’t sacrifice their own truth to allow someone else theirs. The level of entitlement, the level of selfishness, after much conditioning, is just too high.

In life, it is crucial to live your truth. Not everyone you make sacrifices for will be willing to do the same. Not everyone you help will be grateful. Not everyone you know, regardless of how long you’ve known them, will you be able to rely on, let alone trust. For many, this life is a game and in order for them to progress, they feel they must do so selfishly and unforgivingly. Fortunately for me, I understand that it’s not a game. We’re here for the experience and we can choose what that experience can be. I decided that I want to have fun and do things that make me happy. I want to follow what’s good and what feels good. Sometimes that means eliminating things that don’t serve me or my happiness. There will be tough decisions to make, but are they really that tough when you know that one decision will bring you joy and the other…won’t? For me, the choice is quite straightforward.

Spoken Truth: A Different Spotlight

~ Natal Galvan

Like many others, I tuned in to “Quiet on Set,”, which revealed the hidden abuse of child stars behind the scenes. This series, particularly resonant with those of us who grew up in the ’90s, prompted a profound reevaluation of the shows from our youth. The recent revelations about “America’s Dad” and other beloved public figures have been shocking, exposing them as predators and casting a shadow over our entertainment icons.

The realization that numerous adults were present during those times yet remained silent—or worse, silenced those who spoke out—is staggering. The documentary was an eye-opener for me.

However, this morning, an article caught my attention. It discussed the discontent among some cast members of “Quiet on Set” regarding the lack of communication about the series airing on ID Network. A few are now expressing regret, stating that had they known it would be aired on ID, they would have declined to participate. They worry that their stories, and the gravity of the issues they raise, may not be receiving the serious consideration they warrant.

I’m perplexed by the weight given to the network broadcasting our stories. Whether it’s the investigative lens of “2020” or the crime-focused gaze of Investigation Discovery, isn’t the essence that the narrative is conveyed with fidelity? If the harrowing journeys and the shadows of abuse endured by the victims are brought to light, why does the channel of delivery stir such debate? For the regular ID audience, who are connoisseurs of crime and inquiry, the platform should not dilute the potency of the message, but rather serve as a conduit for the voices that demand to be heard.

To quote Alexa Nikola, she states:

“We have to live with our stories and how they were treated by ID and Maxine forever while they see it as leverage for future projects…. There’s nothing bingeable about trauma.”

Yet, my perspective diverges. In the tapestry of today’s society, it is the threads of sensationalism, horror, and trauma that enthrall the masses. This voracious appetite for the macabre is what dominates the zeitgeist. It’s a melancholic reflection that the integrity of these stories may be under scrutiny, doubted perhaps by viewers, or even the very individuals who bared their souls. It’s the underlying dread that their confessions might be dismissed. However, contrary to their fears, the world has indeed taken notice.

As the final credits of “Quiet on Set” roll, the echoes of the revelations linger in the minds of viewers. The series, a tapestry woven with threads of courage and vulnerability, leaves an indelible mark on the collective memory of a generation. It stands as a testament to the resilience of those who endured, and a call to action for an industry in dire need of reform. While the platform of its unveiling—ID Network—may be debated, the imperative message it conveys transcends boundaries, urging us to listen more intently and advocate more fiercely for the silent voices that have only just begun to speak.

The Quiet Reckoning

~ Natal Galvan

“Daddy! I need help!”

A cry pierced the air, a symphony of irritation and mild alarm; it heralded no menace, only the onset of a deluge of tears that dared to breach the ramparts of my heart, long fortified. There, in her vibrant fuchsia chariot, the little girl and her companion sat, teetering on the edge of too-grown for such whimsical rides. Midway through their suburban odyssey, the spirited steed faltered, its electric lifeblood drained, leaving dreams momentarily stranded.


“DADDYYYYYYY!” He was still inside, and these young ladies had a block to drive.


Suddenly he bolts out of the house as if he had been catapulted but some unseen force, hops down the four small steps, landing on the sidewalk with a WAP! Within seconds he makes his way down the sidewalk and around the back of the Jeep. Grabbing onto the back, he begins to run, pushing them down the sidewalk and sending them all into laughter.


This is the moment that I burst into tears.


It dawned on me then, the stark realization that the bond I yearned for with my father was a dream unfulfilled, now lost to time. A year and a half had passed since his departure. His health had always been fragile, leading to numerous scares, but our estrangement made these moments less poignant. In truth, he had been absent from my life; thus, his passing did not leave a void.
On the day of his passing, my tears were not for the loss of a beloved father, for our love had never blossomed. Instead, I felt a peculiar sense of curiosity. Visiting him a week before, I saw a man unknown to me. He lay silent, eyes closed, hands twisted in pain or discomfort, his mouth agape. Caretakers attended to him, wiping away drool, moistening his lips, offering water through a sponge.


A solitary encounter with him became memorable when I played a song from my childhood from the movie, “An American Tale,” which we cherished. His reaction was unexpected—his face contorted, tears flowed, and he emitted sounds of deep distress.


Before me was a stranger, a man whose life had barely brushed against mine. I didn’t know his favorite color. I did not know his favorite food. I didn’t know what genre of movie he preferred. I knew little of him—his likes, dislikes, or passions—save for his love of music and women. Whether his feelings for us were born of love or guilt, I could not discern.


I’m not going to say that he never tried, but there were certain wounds too deep, etched onto the soul of my being that wouldn’t allow for that to fully happen. There were rare occasions in which I had been the one to try. I’d reach out to him with a plan of action. We’d talk for hours going over what our lives had been up to that point and sprinkling in how we had to try to fix it, this, us. We’d hang up the phone, I’d feel light, and accomplished. That bit of motivation would then be followed up with silence. He would disappear and we wouldn’t speak for what would be for a couple of years after that. This would be our pattern until the day he died.


As a reader, I was aware of the potential regret of not connecting with him, a sentiment echoed by my family. Yet, now that he is gone, it is not regret that weighs on me but a profound disappointment—a longing to experience the sorrow that eludes me, the natural grief of a child for their father.


For months after he died, I would anxiously wait for the moment everyone had been warning me about. The moment of missing him, of yearning to hear his voice, or to hold his cold hands (his hands were always cold- “Cold hands, warm heart” he’d say!) but that moment never really came. I would try to sit in silence and see if I could feel his presence. I’d try my hardest to pay close attention to my dreams to see if maybe he’d visit me there. I soon realized I was reverting to childhood, always waiting for him, wanting him to visit, always being met with disappointment. So, I gave up again like I had years back.


Perhaps I won’t grieve as I did upon witnessing my neighbor, his offspring in tow, navigating a bubblegum-pink Barbie Jeep under the somber March skies. Yet, there’s solace in the breakthrough, a quiet epiphany embraced in solitude. It was a moment graced with a tender reflection of him, untainted by even a whisper of bitterness.

Tales of a Beachcomber’s Odyssey

~ Natal Galvan

Flipping through a kaleidoscope of snapshots, it’s like a whirlwind tour of the many ‘me’s I’ve been! From the zany outfits to the cast of quirky characters I’ve moonlighted as, it’s been quite the show. Take the beach life, for example. When you’re young, the beach is your stage, but it’s not all sunshine and seashells, especially if you’re flying solo. The local beach brigade? A motley crew of sun-toasted, merry-makers in their golden years, toasting to the good ol’ days with a never-ending happy hour. They’re living it up—or so it seems—riding the wave of yesteryears, chasing a mirage of ‘more’ that’s just a bit too far out of reach.

Ah, paradise—a solo gig can feel like a tropical time-out. Days blend into each other, an infinite loop of sand, sun, and the same ol’ sea. Sure, Florida was a blast with its endless summer vibe, but even paradise can get old. How, you ask? Well, imagine the same sunny script, day in, day out, even the palm trees start to look like party props after a while. At first, it’s an exotic escape worth every sacrifice. But give it time, and you start to wonder what you traded in for this beachy dream.

Then comes the moment of truth, drawing that line in the sand—literally. To stay or not to stay? That is the beachy question. It’s like the ocean’s own siren song, luring you back to its shores. I’ve packed my bags for Florida not once, but twice, and I’d be fibbing if I said a third encore isn’t tempting. But hey, if I’ve waved goodbye twice, there’s gotta be a reason, right? It’s the same back-and-forth with my hometown—how many farewells and reunions can one have?

Gazing at these piles of photos, the faces, the places, it’s clear there’s a whole world out there waiting for me to dive in. I’m jazzed about discovering my next grand scene. Until then, I’ll keep on trekking, little adventures at a time. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find my next ‘spotlight’ in the most unexpected place.

Echoes of Existence

~ Natal Galvan

“I wonder where my heart will land, and if it’ll land where my body lies.”- Natal Galvan

They are among us, yet they fade from my sight. No longer do I perceive the addicts; instead, I see the individuals they were, the selves they long to reclaim, the potential they possess. Their narratives are woven into their attire, their distress sculpted upon their visages. Occasionally, I discern the tears that mar their cheeks—tears ignored, for who casts a glance their way? What does it matter? Those tears are silent pleas for aid. Yet we don’t acknowledge their existence.

For some, their prospects were snatched away; for others, surrendered willingly. Their anticipated futures dissolved, leaving only the anguish of the present. Some occupy the desolate corners, chilled and damp; others wander the byways, seeking a path to renewal. Hope has eluded many, their strength waning. Among them are veterans who once battled for our freedoms, entrepreneurs who steered vast enterprises, individuals blessed with joyful beginnings, and those seemingly destined for relentless hardship.

If you pause to contemplate a moment in their lives, your soul cannot help but be burdened, for our imaginings pale in comparison to their stark realities. Thus, we must embrace compassion and empathy. Rather than averting our gaze, let us offer a simple smile—a beacon of hope to sustain them a moment longer.

They are all around us, invisible to some. But I see them—I see the humanity that endures within.

Keeping Quiet

~ Natal Galvan

“Most men are so thoroughly subjective that nothing really interests them but themselves. They always think of their own case as soon as ever any remark is made, and their whole attention is engrossed and absorbed by the merest chance reference to anything which affects them personally, be it never so remote.” -Arthur Schopenhauer

I read this quote and I immediately thought of myself. It is true, that when those around me are tellibging their tales, my brain can’t help but attach personal stories to the words they speak. It’s almost like I’m bursting at the seams, yet trying to be patient, waiting for them to finish, just so that I can participate and share my own experiences. But why? Why is it that we have such a need to intrude on other people’s moment? Maybe not so much intruding, but that urge of sharing.

I’m slowly learning that not only do I not have to always share my own stories, but I also don’t always have to offer up my advice. I’m learning to speak a lot less. If someone is genuine and wanting any of these from me, then they’ll ask. I’m noting that by allowing others to speak freely without interruption from me, they obviously share more. The less I speak, the more I learn about them.

Another true point is the less I offer up, the less I feel rejected. I can’t mention how many times, while trying to participate in a conversation, my comments go unacknowledged. It’s never a good feeling when you feel like no one’s really listening to you. But again, without allowing for those to ask me, I’m only putting myself out there for a possible rejection.

People love to talk and in their world it’s about them. So I’m learning to speak less. As an observer I absorb much more by doing that, which is doing nothing, only listen. It’s incredible the amount that you learn about others or your surroundings by simply keeping quiet.

That Little Prince

~ Natal Galvan

It’s summer but I spring cleaned my room this week, for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. It’s not that I’m messy. It’s a controlled chaos. Sometimes that controlled chaos gets a little frizzy, so I have to come around and tame it a bit, just like everyone else. Actually, not like anyone else but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because during this so-called “spring cleaning” I stumbled across an item that sent me reeling back to a time that once was. It was a book gifted to me by someone special in the days before me moving back home from CA. The book is “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint Exupery.

The book came to me initially by recommendation. I was at my local library at the time scanning isles, nothing really jumping out at me. One thing about me and my trips to the library, which could be either good or bad or neither really, is the fact that I never went in with a plan as to what I was looking for. I would just walk up and down the row of bookshelves, with hopes that the right one would jump out at me. On one of my trips searching for that right book, I accidentally (on purpose) bumped into my crush. Now, this tall glass of water worked there restocking books. By this point we hadn’t exchanged more than a few words here and there, and definitely some stolen glances. This particular day was the beginning of something special. After apologizing for the minor collision, he asked me if there was something in particular that I was looking for. I told him the method to my madness and in turn he asked me if I was open to any recommendations. I, of course, accepted. I would have accepted almost anything by him at this point, and that’s when he mentioned The Little Prince.

Typically, I do not judge a book by it’s cover, not in any aspect that you can apply that phrase to. Taking a look at the font cover of this one, however, made me doubt my desire to read this book. It did look a bit adolescent to me, but what did I expect when taking recommendations from an almost complete stranger. That same night I sat on my bed and began reading, and by early the next morning I was finished. I closed the book amazed at the fact that something so small could pack such a big punch.

I walked to the library the next day, all the while planning on how I was going to walk up to him directly, without any pretenses other than to thank him for the recommendation. It’s not everyday that someone impresses me with a good read, and so I walk in. I dropped the book into the “return” bin and scanned the library, wondering where he could be. Maybe in the non-fiction, historical section? Religious or Spiritual isle? Or maybe in the cooking section? I couldn’t find him, but it didn’t take him long to find me.

He asked me out on a date that day. I was over the moon. I had always thought I would meet the man of my dreams in a library, and walah! It happened. From the night of our first date, we were inseparable. I found a lot of joy sharing my time with him, as we both learned and experience so much with one another. The tragedy didn’t come for months later, but it was one that I saw coming, hoping in silence that it wouldn’t. I was to return back home after a year of not being able to get my life together there. It had all been so hard, much harder than I ever thought it would be. Jobs were scarce and those that I was able to obtain never lasted long. They were either temp jobs or paid peanuts. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how little I tried to eat, no matter the times I would sit in my home with all the lights off, trying to conserve any bit of electricity I could, I never had enough money to cover life in CA. I had two major heartbreaks that year, leaving CA, and leaving him behind.

After having to deliver the news of my return home, the weeks following that were filled with happiness draped in a woven quilt of sadness. We tried to make sure that we relished in every moment that we spent together, but as the days would turn into darkness, the feeling became more desolate, each day being one day closer to that of me leaving.

On the last day that we spent together, we did nothing remarkably special. We went to our favorite burger joint, the one where we went to the day after I first spent the night and morning with him. We rode around the neighborhoods in his El Camino, taking in the last bit of Cali streets I would be seeing in what I knew would be a long time, if ever again. That night we hung out in his bedroom, and after a while of listening to music and reminiscing of our times together he mentioned that he had something for me. I closed my eyes and once reopened, there in front of me, was the library copy of The Little Prince.

Fast forward to earlier this week when I was cleaning out my room, I began dusting the books that lined the walls of my bedroom. Dusting was something that I hadn’t done the last time I cleaned, which is probably why I hadn’t noticed the book there before. The moment I saw it and picked it up, my heart skipped a beat and slightly sunk. So many memories resurfacing, pulling at my heart, instances that I had thought I tucked away so many years ago. I brushed of the dusty cover and opened the book, and there on the inside cover was the quote…

“But she in herself is more important than all of you because she is the one I watered. Because she is the one I put a glass dome. Because she is the one I sheltered behind a screen. Because it is for her that I killed caterpillars (all except for two or three who were to become butterflies). Because she is the one I have listened to, complaining, or boasting, or sometimes when she says nothing. Because she is my rose.”

Immediately after reading this, I felt almost every emotion one can feel. Happiness and sadness. Anger. Guilt. After leaving CA, it wasn’t long when I had slowly started to cease communication with him. I had been depressed. I felt as though CA was such a painful experience that I just couldn’t continue to remember. I knew I had, too, broken his heart and I didn’t feel ok in knowing that by keeping in touch, I could be hurting him even more. Before I knew it, communication completely stopped, and even though I have since reached out on a number of occasions, our talks have never been longer than just a couple sentences.

By the time I wanted to try to save even a friendship, it had been too late. I lost him.

If I could tell him anything, I would tell him how sorry I was to have let our friendship go silent. I made a mistake by closing a chapter in my life that was too painful to continue reliving and by doing so, I lost one very important highlight of what once was a time so cold. I’ve never forgotten, nor will ever forget what it was to have a person like you on my team, making some of my best memories in CA being shared with one very special Little Prince, that one who got away.

The Final Act

~ Natal Galvan

Panic attacks. I used to get them periodically and what always triggered them, it was never anything else, were thoughts of death. I guess that’s what happens when at a young age you begin to lose people.

The attacks would always start with a small thought, something innocent like seeing roadkill, or hearing a piece of news on the radio about some celebrity’s passing. I would start to think about how they’re no longer able to soak up the day’s sunrays, or ever appreciate what it feels like when a spring’s breeze kisses your face. I’d begin to think about how their loved ones somewhere out there in the world would be heartbroken for what it would feel like a lifetime to come. The thoughts would then trickle into my personal life. What if I lose my mother?… or my sister? What if right now someone crashes into me, T-boned, and POOF! Lights out?

THAT’S when the panic would slowly slither in.

It would start with a slight flicker of the pulse in my neck. It felt like a double click; trigger being pulled. My throat would feel constricted by only a little at first, making it an actual thought to swallow instead of the instinct that it is. My hands would begin to get clammy and would ball up in anticipation of what was to come, and a cold sweat would soon then follow. Thoughts all the while tumbling around my mind, detailing the sudden death, a death that hasn’t happened yet.

This went on for a number of years at times being almost debilitating, but with the help of things like meditation and such, I slowly was able to control these attacks. Instead of having such a fear of what is death, I in turn decided to change my mindset and learned to adapt a healthy respect for it. Regardless of the respect, there are times in which I simply do get caught off guard by what is the final act in this play called Life. Especially when someone so amazing suddenly goes.

It makes no difference the way in which a loved one passes, it’s never easy. I do find it excruciatingly difficult to grasp when someone who is young and full of life dies without one ever seeing it coming. I’ve lost many people in my life this way, more than half of them being when I was still too young to fully understand the permanence of what was happening. Recently however, the ones in my life that passed have really taken me back, almost to those moments of panic because now I do understand the permanence of it, as well as the randomness. I see and logically comprehend that amazingly good hearted people, wise souls that shine a light onto this sometimes dark and violent world, aren’t immune to being taken early. Emotionally I cannot understand it. My heart doesn’t compute why the good ones go so young and as I get older, I don’t think it ever will.

No matter how hard I try to put words to how I feel about my friend’s recent passing I simply cannot. When I tell you that this world lost an amazing person, I cannot describe to you how much I seriously I mean it. An intelligent, compassionate soul who truly did make a positive impact on this world, because anyone who came across him would forever be changed in their most positive of ways. To extinguish that torch was to make this place just a little darker, but if you believe in heaven, it just got a heck of a lot brighter.

However sad and painful, I still try to find the silver lining. I guess it goes to say that I haven’t really lost them, but if anything I now have quite a crew waiting for me to get back. I am in no rush, but I do find comfort in that. Until then, all can really do is clichély live my life in tribute to them and seize the chances and opportunities, living for those who could not.

Inevitable Crossings

~ Natal Galvan

South Jersey, a small little beach town cannot hide what you’re not trying to see. It’s been 10 months and I avoided running into the past that I have worked so hard to forget. Still, it is like a shadow that inevitably reveals itself, reminding you of what once was. It is crazy for me to see how much others have not been able to move on with their lives even years later when memories are now fuzzy with dust.

When I moved away the second time it was due to two heartbreaks, the passing of my closest cousin and the infidelity of my best friend. For years I delt with both losses. One still wears on my heart like an itchy wool sweater because he is no longer able to enjoy and share in the journey of this world. The other I learned to forgive as well as forget. I knew that once coming back to my hometown, the later would resurface but I would be damned if I would make it easy for a chance encounter. I almost made it an entire year.

Like mentioned before, this area is small, where everyone knows everyone and if they don’t know you, there will still be various mutual acquaintances to keep you tethered. That’s how we ended up crashing into each other again. I remember it being innocent and refreshing. I felt as though full closure was finally had, and to know that we could each move on with our lives without the weight of a tragic and heartbreaking past weighing us down was a great feeling. In my mind there was no longer a full need to dodge, for both parties were in accordance, a synchronized dance. Yet, it was two days later that I heard through the grapevine that things were not well; drama was to ensue.

Honestly, what the actual fuck did I think was going to happen? Not everyone is going to be like me. Not everyone can forgive or forget, even if it was them that were the snake in Eden’s garden. I decided to ignore the gossip, although juicy. I also couldn’t help feel the slight ego boost that infiltrated my soul. A moment in which it all came full circle, knowing that ultimately they did not succeed in their malicious plan to thwart something so natural. Never the less, it was none of my business and I wanted no part of being caught up in the spectacle. She, however, could not help it.

Weeks later I run into him again, even though at this point there was no mistaking, it wasn’t coincidental. I knew he was finding ways to bring himself around and on this specific night I decided to let him know that this, what he was doing was not only brazen, but dissapointing. I now understood that there had not been much change that had taken place in the time of my absence. Even though I wanted to believe that with age there had been much growing amongst all involved, that had simply not been the case.

“We need to talk,” he begged as I turned away from him. “Just give me a minute.” Without wanting to be rude or cold, I allowed him the minute, but he only got about 10 seconds in before I stopped him. He began by asking me why it was that I had contacted his wife in order to tell her that we had seen each other. I laughed. I was shocked at the lie she had configured and even more so at the fact that he believed her. The serpent had slithered her way into trying to gain information and he fell for her trickery. I give her props, but then immediately took it back. I don’t like to be used as a manipulation tactic.

“I have absolutley no need to contact your wife. I haven’t spoken to her in over 5 years. I also have no time for childish games. Please, both of you need to forget about me just as I have moved on from all of you. You’re no more than a grain of sand in my sandbox.” And with that I relocated to another area of the bar.

He ended up following right behind but his boys, my angels, decided to send him packing, but not before he could rob himself a hug and a drunken smooch on my cheek. A smooch that cost him a hard and boney elbow to his chest. “Get off of me! Don’t you EVER do that again!” With that, he was wisked away into an uber.

Apologies and messages of shock radiated from his friends. I wasn’t too surprised at his actions so I told his friends there truly was no need of an apology from them. This was exactly the kind of thing I was used to years ago, when all of this was my life. Now however, I would not tolerate the disrespect be it towards me or his serpent. I left this life long ago and there was no way in hell I wanted any part of it back. A friendship, at most, would have been the only thing I was open for when it came to these circus clowns but now seeing as though conflict is all they still swam in, I was not at all interested.

As sure as I am that I will see them around for the world is too small, I am equally as sure that I won’t even take a glance in their direction. All I will say is that it’s sad to see people in your life staying trapped in a time that truly has no present purpose other than to keep you chained to unease and unhappiness. When you notice that their days are filled with empty monotony and lack of passion. They mesure their success with titles and tangibles and never seem to notice that they never evolved into their full potential simply because they got caught up with trying to manipulate life. Life isn’t a game. It is a beautiful journey of inner growth and spiritual learning. Many may not understand this, but I do. So I will continue on my path without taking much of a glance back, because what’s important to me is making a consious effort in maintaing my inner peace, while showing others that it is ok to evolve in to a more happier and peaceful version of what once was.