The Hands of the Keeper of Memories (I)
The Keeper has the strangest hands, not in appearance, but in what they can do. Hers not only touch, hold and feel, but see, hear, smell and taste as well, and through them the Keeper experiences whatever sensory aspects a memory may conjure up. Each of these senses is heightened or dulled according to the exact state the memory owner originally felt.
As these moments of recall unfold themselves cupped in her palms, the Keeper has no choice, whether for better or for worse, but to undergo as only she can, what each of us went through. The Keeper accepts this duty willingly. Though she is powerless to alter our memories, whatever we long/care/fear to remember return to us only after they have lain in the warm caress of her omnisensorial hands.
Because of this, and as you may have already guessed, the Keeper is gifted (and burdened) with the ability to understand and share the feelings of others.
Hence, the Keeper of Memories is known too as The Mistress of Empathy.
(This post is a continuation of The Keeper of Memories made in November 2007.)
Posted in: Exit Stage Write | Comments(1) | January 2008
A Child Is Born
Do you see the star above us
Like a cross of heav’nly light
It began to shine so long ago
On that one wondrous night
As He lay with Mary close by
In His manger of golden hay
Did He see the cross before Him
Three and thirty years away
He will come again
But ‘til that day is here
Let us live our lives
In the words of the Son
“Oh Father, Thy will be done.”
We will wait for that Good Friday
In the hope of Easter morn
But tonight rejoice and celebrate
For Jesus Christ is born
He is born
He is born
The Child is born.
Posted in: Exit Stage Write | Comments(0) | December 2007
Doing Christmas On The Cheap
It came upon a midnight clear-y
While I pondered weak and weary
What gifts to offer you my dearie
Within the budget I’d set in store
Quoth my wallet, “Nevermore”
Through this silent and holy night
While all else is calm and bright
My pockets quake at the sight
As I meekly enter the grand mall’s door
Quoth my wallet, “Nevermore”
But joy to the world, there’s a world of joy
That lets poor men our songs employ
In lieu of costly trinket, bauble or toy
To express love to the dearest we adore
Quoth our hearts, “Forevermore.”
(With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe and the blessed authors of the Christmas carols 
)
Posted in: Exit Stage Write | Comments(0) | December 2007