Ancient Bottles of Crusted Emotion

A sublime litany, will resonate with many who have similarly suffered.

Chronicles of an Orange-Haired Woman!

Separation Anxiety, like incredibly ancient crusted wine, lies at the bottom of my Greek bottles. Nothing shifts it, for it is baked into the fired glass by centuries of exposure to scorching Cretan suns, has become a part of the curvaceous whole.

I have travelled far – into a very new land. My imprint in the sands of this beautiful Vale of Avalon is not yet deep or secure; wind storms cover it over and obliterate the shallow mark.

I mourn, at times horribly, painfully, for some of those I left behind in the old world; those who were dear to my heart; those with whom I had a connection and, in some cases, a special language.

This is a time of acute rootlessness suspended, as I am, between two places, two times. Distance in the heart can be nothing – or is can present as an abyss of anguish…

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