I’m not really sure where to start.
I have been living my life in the back seat of my mind.
Aware of the obvious path of destruction,
but unable to do anything.
What I’m doing is not living.
No, disassociation is not living.
I think I have been dead for a while now.
This is lonely.
The closest to passion I get these days is in my anger.
Consuming and unforgiving.
Anxiety contorts.
Head full of doubt.
A deadly combination.
Alas, I am already dead.
So why all the worry?
The clock ticks on.
I watch seasons fly by,
Yet I am still here.
I am still here,
and it is lonely.
—
Zahara Stranger resides in a world of imagination and beauty. She longs to be a forest dweller, her thoughts pull her there insistently. An adventurer co-existing among the mossy trees. A Dryad living in those groves. Words flow onto each page like a breath of fresh air. Her mind, while writing, transports her back to the trees. Words transport her to the moss and the mushrooms, a beautiful comfort.