The Tin Warrior Tales

After my unusual encounter with the Guru, a foreboding sense of “something” clings to my aura. It stubbornly nags. Carving a hole into my heart nervous. With my recent death acting as the catalyst for this propelling force, reflection takes over. Awareness bubbles to the raw surface. Death presents with the opportunity to seize a whole new existence. I could become anything, anyone, in anyway I want. I could finally be free from old skins. The burning question: where to begin?

All alternatives point to my new found friend “food“, who recently reminded me to embrace life. In order to live abundantly I must nourish my heart, mind, soul and of course physical body. What could food offer that would aid my new existence? Healing. This is when my “aha” moment happened. The singing chime of bells creating havoc in my mind busy. To be anything, I had to find my power in food not give it the power to own me. This is how my loosely shaped shadow begins to rebuild its shell. And with the help of a special visitor crystal clarity burns my old flesh.

The Art Magician is the sole reason I “saw” it from another perception. My eyes, feasting on a hidden truth only uncovered today. He redefined my understanding of food. In awe I watched as he created inspiring beautiful masterpieces. One after the other, he designed boldly beautiful treasures. Transfixed in this vibrant cocktail of colours, it was as if I woke up from my trance. The old dream suddenly dead. The artists pallet brimming with enchanting enthusiasm.

“You doubt my purpose. But you have to see me first to understand me. Then you must define me in your own words.”

Stuttered the cauliflower from beneath her exotic skin. Her soft body trembling in the cool warmth of liquid red paint. Red and green peppers, nodding in unison. Their frowning creases intense. An unspoken culinary code of honour. “We have purpose.” The rather unimpressed cherry tomatoes roll their tender centres at me. Disdain clearly apparent. My tongue disabled against clenched teeth defiant. The Art Magician was delivering a message simple yet it seems to have evaded me. I could choose the purpose.

With a puff of aromatic smoked spices, the haze clouding my vision lifts. Paprika stinging my eyes. The truth had been staring me in the face, yet I had to die again to finally push past my own limits. I had purpose so why would the gift of nature not have her own. Duh. Then the unraveling unraveled. I was choosing my new skin, I was reborn without labels or attachments. So, how did I apply my purpose? The rice excitedly shakes in its bowl, tipping across the neatly laid out platter. The Art Magician will not be impressed.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! You’re almost getting the point. Almost.”

It was screaming eagerly but no one actually spoke. From nowhere stoic flat bread slaps me across my face. I jerk back. I had been living a life for others, however, not this time though. The ending concluded. I had dreams, aspirations, desires. A world in which kindness, love, humanity prevails where our uniqueness is embraced. My new world would dance amongst vivacious colour, creativity, consideration. Then, why could food not be this expression. After all, the Art Magician was a fine master of creation. He was building an uplifting universe with his unconditional love for Mother Nature. This is the missing jigsaw of my food puzzle. I cannot build a home without a foundation. Food is the crux to my service to humanity. I had to take its jovial, merry hand and together build my castle. I could begin my own revolution.

A chorus of harmonic relief rings from the wooden artistry. I realise at last, I am now on the right path. I am not one for labels so I am not going to brand this journey as vegan or other. All I know is that I must live my purpose in its actions. Actions that are humanely considerate. Ethically soulful, valuing everyone and everything. Yet, playful fun in their demeanour. Swirling in creative rainbows my relationship with food can be honestly expressive experiments. I need not find the right way. I could define my own.

It won’t be easy.”

Warns the bitter bright lemon. It certainly won’t be. Firstly, I must accept that food is my saviour. Only, then can I translate that into a reality that will endeavour I reach my potential for the greater good of self and other. The principle easy. I am my own worth. Choices to nourish my body are reflections of my inner worth. It may seem complicated but anyone with experiences of disordered eating, trauma or malfunctioned childhoods fail at the basic hurdle of self care. Thus, it is a lesson, one where we parent ourselves to learn the simplest yet most rewarding experiences of life.

As the Tin Warrior, I have many obstacle courses to overcome. The very first to free my body from what it inherently holds in its default patterns. I trust with the help of the Guru, I will be many steps closer. And under the twinkling gaze of the Art Magician, I can celebrate the wonderful world of creativity to finally pay my respects to the earth for its abundance. Amongst all of this, manage my focus to change perceptive reality so I am able to positively influence my mindset. The process of rebirth evolving as I write this.

The discovery of a self awakening is only just coming to life. The chance to live within my grasp. My wings ready to take the plunge into sweet intoxication off delicately powerful joy.

Together in synchronicity, we shall function. Heart. Mind. Body. Soul. One true existence.

The giddy concoction of proud vegetables applaud at my awakening. I smile in happy comfort.

I would like to thank the Art Magician for his exceptionally amazing work. Credit to his commitment and true passion for his creativity. Please take a look at his pieces of stunning art below.

Polite note: photographs belong to the artist.

Thank you cauliflower curry and co for your kind support. Albeit, a little sarcastic at times.

Until the next creative explosion.


The Tin Warrior and the Guru

Sparkling angels dance with starry light, illuminating the already bright airy room. Her pearly whites, hurting my eyes. We weren’t used to such brightness. One of them sang in a language I somehow understood, although we didn’t speak the same language.

“The guru will be with you shortly. Be seated, please.”

My stuck hands stiff, without permission from my mind, lift into a rather awkward namaste salute. Don’t ask me why, even my hands don’t know. And I’m sure neither did the slightly bemused angels. Rattling, I hobbled to a row of seats.

The angels fading into the clean white walls as I begin to drift into my thoughts. Soft music rolls in my ears, unused to serene calmness. Feeling oddly out of place, I try to shift in my seat making unwelcome racket. Tin joints, groaning with my failed attempts. Sighing I close my eyes, weary. Weathering many storms for the last three years, I was unfamiliar with this light teasing. Actually, I was uncomfortable. I started craving for my dark haven, familiarity a lull warm. The pregnant cocoon of old ways, calling me home. I hadn’t left it in awhile, afraid to see the reality behind my darkened gloom.

Trembling, I clutch my tin fingers together. Pressing them against my heart beat erratic. There was something strange about this eerily awake room full of warm light. Suddenly, I was hot all over. Everything was so still even when it was all so alive at the same time. This was when the angel cooed again breaking my trance.

“Room 1, please.”

Her voice smoothly reassuring. It breaks my impending nervous breakdown. I nod. My slow attempt at standing a messy falter. I hesitate. I hear her thoughts and decline her unspoken offer of help. Spraying rain droplets everywhere, I put one metal foot in front of the other. And finally the motor begins to churn to some version of life. Of course, at no speedy race course. Eventually, I arrive at the elusive room 1. The door ajar, I again hesitate but some magical force wills me in.

Room 1 is dimly lit, casting curious shadows on the pale walls. It’s scent sweet, Room 1 is a garden floral of various delicacies. The window a high one, sheltered from the peek boo of adamant sun rays play fighting with the grey. It throbs with an unusual electric energy, yet peaceful all the same. It’s tune a slow hum of a drum beat rolling against waves. Tentatively I step forward. One step after another. My shuffling strangely loud for such an alive room. Unexpectedly, I smile at Room 1 and it winks back in a greeting jest.

“Hello, Tin Warrior.”

Chants a gentle voice from no where in particular. My nervous eyes quickly dart across the room since my stuck frame can’t. Behind us the door slams shut without any warning. I look up and to my amazement find a man floating, his long legs crossed, lean arms hanging loosely. His eyes twinkling with mischief. A halo of light clinging to his hair wild. His pale skin ghostly. My hair tingles, I don’t even know what hair tingling would feel like but it tingled, I swear.

I suppress my gasp, actually I swallow it. It would be rude not too.

“It has been long. I have waited for you. We have much to do, I see.”

I don’t know how he did it, he somehow flutters towards me. Just like that, he was standing next to me. I could hear the hum of his heart beat. His soft breathing in my shocked ears. He smiled wide. His whole being exploding into tiny fireworks. I shake my head, maybe I had tin cobwebs growing in it. I wished I hadn’t stayed in my hole for so long. It was then he laughed as if he heard my internal chat. And I laugh with him, it was warmly infectious but I think I was the object of his amusement.

“We have much to do. Come my friend for you are not meant to be stuck.”

With that he takes long fingers that are as if they had been dipped in yellow warm light and places them on my burning neck. Before, I know it, my neck shockingly cracks.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

“I am the Guru.” He whispers back.

Then in a flash of lightening he is gone. This was the moment, I became transformed. My stuck frame, free from centuries old pain. I could never forget this encounter, enchantingly odd. I’m sure neither did he.

I can’t explain this magic, I am no expert. All I know is that I had to see him again. He is the expert.

Be brave, embrace your bodies messages. They are signs that something is or is not in order. I hid for a long time before I admitted, something needed to change. Armed with that knowledge, I chose a new path. The Guru, a welcome surprise. If you are in the area, why not visit him at Only you can change your life.

Until we meet again, be safe, be happy, be bold. Why not find your own Guru?

Tin Warrior.

Food Confessions

Body: What do I need to function?


Body: What fuels me?


Body: What do you deny me the most?


Body: Feed me.

Food. Somehow, even the four letters making up this word, engineer a strangeness in my gut. I can’t blame anyone else but my own ignorance. My blind denial at my eating patterns. It’s no secret that trauma survivors have a history of dysfunctional patterns. Disordered eating being one of them. I am a disordered eater. Sometimes, my ignorance baffles me. How did I think I could survive chronic starvation?

You would think, others would notice and intercept. But not in my life. Come on, if I didn’t notice, then why would they? After all, I am the owner of this body, my soul uses it and if I don’t care, why would you? I guess starving myself into oblivion was the obvious answer. No longer would I be physically present, so finally there would be no more abuse. I take it, my emotions didn’t check in with logic. Before I became invisible, I would first have to get sick. Brownie points for me, whoop, whoop, I got sick. What? You doubted me? Stick that food.

And this is where I woke up. I wasn’t happy when I was a starved exercising demonic maniac. To make it worse I was utterly miserable with my new found status of disability. I watched with horror as I gained weight due to my self abuse. Food, was my new found saviour but I had no idea how to befriend her. I had always denied food because I felt unworthy, helplessly out of control. The reality was I knew no other way. The lack of food had once saved my spiralling child self by allowing her to gain some self respect over her physical body. You can’t hurt me because I am already hurting myself. But I was no longer her. I didn’t want to hurt myself anymore. Some part of my existence knew this. So, why was I leeching on to this poisonous mentality? No one else was disrespecting me. All I had to do was one small thing. I had to eat in order for food to fulfil her promise. She couldn’t help in any other way.

My slight problem was I couldn’t trust food. I didn’t know if she was my friend or an enemy wearing the face of a friend. It’s not as if I had many friends to begin with. But I hated this shell of human I had become. With that also came the awareness that food wasn’t the enemy. I was. You see, I knew the abuse had stopped. However, I hadn’t given myself the permission to stop punishing my own body for what perception told me was my own fault. I was the reason the abuse continued. Today, in my adult body, I am the perpetrator. I am not proud of it but I am also not ashamed to admit I did it. Denial helps no one really.

This is the hardest part. Recovery is by no means easy. However, it is a long standing commitment of love and honour with no one but myself. It is hard if I make it hard. The moment I start to believe I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t deserve respect. I have no value. I am not worthy. I do not belong with others. It is the old pattern hunting me down so it can live whilst I don’t. I once was abused, I am no longer abused. Repeat it with me, I am not defined by my past, I am my present. With this present, I may not fully comprehend the power of food but I will not deny myself in the desperate hope to vanish.

Everyday, food is on my mind. I refuse to give into old ways, I slip a lot. Yet, I remind myself that each day break is a new beginning so I can wipe the plate clean and start over again. My biggest ally, intention. It focuses my mind, centring on all the possibility, love, life, joy I have to experience. Food, is my guest of honour on this mischief. I know to a certain extent our histories shape us but please don’t let it fix your shape, especially not in a web of negativity. We are not prisoners of our old selves. At some point, we have to be accountable for how we live our lives. There’s no shame in making mistakes, the power is growing from them and making small changes along the way.

Heal. Nourish. Flourish. Always, love yourself, love food, love life and love possibility. Even when it feels hard, find something to love, like, care about. It will ground you in your moment. I will continue working on my friendship with food, promise to join us? We can help each other embrace the pleasures that evaded us for so long.

Eat my darlings, for our souls cannot live in empty homes.

Until the next meal.

Whose laughing now, starvation?

Blood thirsty

“He tore out my heart, you stood by and just watched!”

The lines between reality and fantasy blurred as my intense obsession with the Originals gained momentum. At first, I couldn’t understand my sudden attraction to the relationship between Marcel and Klaus. Blood thirst just hung in the air as night and day became one. Then one night, I walked the streets of New Orleans.

It wasn’t Marcel, Klaus and Elijah, on that deadly bridge. It was my sisters and I. Viciously, without a consideration they tore out my heart in one blood thirsty claw and in a mighty fling tossed me into the ocean whilst my mother watched coldly. Her lies clinging to her like a skin. I watched myself die to rise as the beast I was overwhelmed with guilty rage.

I was secretly harbouring, this subdued nightmare. It all ended quickly because my arrogant subconscious never misses an opportunity to mock gleefully. Secrets? Oh it wasn’t having none of that.

Like Marcel, I am breeding a silent, painful hurt. It’s not festering into hate or neither am I on a success binge to prove my worth. Instead, I am somewhere inside holding on to my pain. Pain that decided to find Marcel’s face. Pain that understood and felt his agony at his relationship with his vampire daddy. My pain though is eating away at my wellbeing. It is making me physically ill. This ocean of negativity trying to carve a home in my heart. In my resistance, I forgot to actually feel. Instead I clung onto sickness for survival. My worth a worthless reflection of my poor state of health. It was then I realised that I had never really spoken my truth. I hadn’t honestly ever owned how I felt about the way my mother had always treated me. I couldn’t take responsibility for my emotional self.

Finally, I had the chance. Unexpectedly, before his final departure Klaus accepted his failings as a father. Marcel, remained still. His silence strong. As I stood in their place, with my mother’s arrival, I surprised her. She never accepted her wrongdoings. Instead of her letting her walk away, I took her hand in mine. Brown eyes locked in intent. Then for the first time in my lifetime, my heart whispered.

“Mother, I have always loved you unconditionally. A devoted child, teenager, adult. All I ever wanted was to belong, to be accepted as your own biological child not for the fact that you gave me life but because I am who I am. I wanted you to love my soul. I cannot say I understand your actions. Perhaps, I no longer need too. I do not hate you for any of it. But for so long, I hurt inside because I felt abandoned, alienated, isolated and violated. You never looked, listened or cared about your actions and their implications. Not once, did you say I love you my child. And yes, you stood back, watching my heart being torn out so you could protect the lies you told. I do not hold this against you. I only hoped you would have known that I would have always protected you, if only you had asked. Thank you mother for I finally forgive and free us from this burden that I nurse in my heart.”

With that, in a mist of grey smoke, I disappear into midnight, trembling at my sad reality.

Goodnight vampires. May your blood thirst be sated.

Mirror Mirror

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?

I am no fair maiden. I never was. My magic faded almost four years ago. Staring back at me, is a stranger. I feel I once knew her. She was certainly no foe. But the years lost to an illness, hang limply to my memories burning fiercely in my chest. They only seek one answer; who am I? Do you know me?

I have no words that fully capture this feeling. The closest I can fathom is death. I feel in one single lifetime I have died a many times. I died when I was 8. Then again at 19. And again at 26. I completed the cycle at 34. The last time, I was amongst the living dead, comatose in my own flesh. Right in this moment I again die. Alongside the sadness, a beginning is surging amongst the tide of fear and freedom. A battle ferocious.

The fear of unknown possibilities.

The fear of discovering new flesh.

The fear of failure.

All of this uncertainty born from my drunken sleep. A pregnancy overdue. Forgotten overtime. I was not meant to be asleep for such a length. However, though I could not fight my cruel disease because in reality I am that disease. I died because I was the one poisoning myself with neglect. I was the one serving others at the cost of myself. It was, I who decided that the price of altruistic kindness was the entirety of my existence. Me. Me. Me. My selfish desire to serve the greater good, rested solely on my shoulders. Bitch slapped by reality, finally to call it to a halt.

Currently, as I die, my reality has found itself cracking beneath old perceptions. I always knew my purpose. Fulfilling it, is another story. I do not doubt that life isn’t a self indulging feat. My soul breathes only my purpose. My heart thuds to that tune alone. It has no other choice. But the how, forever haunting. I am not afraid to see with my new eyes of perception. I am afraid I won’t like what life has been trying to show me. For what so long now, I wished for appears to be foolish hope. I am no fool. Yet, I have died several times to return to the same truth.

My physical body lives on, whilst my essence continues to shift into new realms. This whole inner life- death loop incredibly tiresome. I am, I think emotionally tired because in the end the truth is unchanging. I cannot live a life bound to attachments and detach from others. This is the time to let attachments be. Not for the greater good but for my own good. With these attachments, I will never know my own truth. I will otherwise be a shell to what others want me to be.

It’s scary.

I am scared that I will not like who I see. Who am I without my attachments to family, belonging, humanity, kindness? I don’t fear being naked, I fear what I will become without my anchors. Is my innate self a good, moral soul? How will I know this without my old value system? My life at present, presents me with signs of moral disharmony. Watching them, allows me the mercy to be different. But am I just selfishly using them to keep myself in line?

You are the fairest of them all my queen.

Somewhere, in my heart, a lick of fire warms my heart. It serves as a poignant reminder. Noisy fear, is merely my ego, clinging desperately to my old self. It is, a wicked trickster, wantonly wanting to live on through my anxieties. It knows, it can win only if I give into it’s cruel intentions. And in its egoic victory, will the death loop continue. Sadly, my anchors on repeat play the same old patterns of negativity. Allowing for no other exits. You see though, this time, I had already decided to not hang myself at the mercy of the ego.

Dear Mirror,

You have always be kind to me but in truth I am not the fairest of them all. I am no fool though. Thank you for your humble service. However, you are now discharged.

Be free, my friend.

Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

It feels like an elusive misconception chugging through the hard wired perception that no one is really free or trapped. It’s all a matter of perception. I have no idea if this is true or not. However, whilst I stare at my almost translucent reflection, I realise that one must live truthfully to know anything. So, then let’s together shed our skins, love our fear and take this tabla rosa to leap into the ocean of unknown adventure. Maybe we will never fully know who we are. At the very least, in trying to live we may uncover some versions of who we are. And does it even matter if we don’t know who we are?

Why not, let the magic of wonderful life be our guide. We are our own mirrors. Thank you for sharing this moment with me.

Love. Light. Hope.

Midnight mocha

“But he’s a nigger!”

“And you’re a PAKIstani”

“But he’s a NIGGER!”

“At least he’s not a black woman”.

My humour failing the old dears. You would get the irony if you were Asian Muslim. By all means, I was mocking them and not black women.

Yawn. If you have had the pleasure of reading my recent ramblings, you would by now be aware, I am Pakistani. And I so dramatically fell in love and sort of eloped to marry my lover, who is BLACK. Black, that oh so offensive dirty word. It’s a colour not a freaking mutation of a killer disease. But with the way people reacted, I did ponder for awhile.

What really is the problem here? My first deduction leads to myself. I made a choice, which evidently challenged my families internal misguided dynamics of brotherhood. You made such a big decision without us? Um, yes I did. Why? Because your so obviously not racist. Hint. Hint. You catch my drift? This ever going, merry go round of hurt feelings and familial betrayal refuses to stop. Again, he is my husband not yours. Now, we’ve been married 4 months and we’re still singing similar tunes. This time though, my safety a concern. I will give them that, temporarily though. As they refuse to see the possibilities rather than just their concerns, I grow tiresomely weary. At this point it becomes less about concern and more about control. Exactly, maybe fear will deter my supposed madness at marrying a black man. I’m writing in black ink, is this also a crime?

So, what is it that derives this unnecessary fear of colour?

Beyond the overcomplicated concerned contradictions, how are we really different? We’re both souls wearing fashionable human pigmented skin. Privileged in our modern, westernised lives, with access to opportunity and dreams. Please, someone clarify this craziness.

You see, I think we’re churning the same old “language“, where the degradation of another is so casually accepted due to recent normalisation of certain “stereotypes” in modern life. “Hey, nigger, nigger, nigger.” The beginning of my new age rap. Although I am no Rihanna.

Why not? It’s no biggie. You do it, I do it. I think this is where some of my problems emerge. My family, isn’t alone the only Asian supremacist, I bet you’ve met others but you really don’t get to indulge in these colours. I though fell in the net of their contradictions. The oddity here is that I love my family, I may have never entirely fit the bill of atypical “Pakistani, Muslim female” but I hadn’t fully pushed any invisible limits. Then, I chose to love him. The vile black man. Love, holds me to both connections. However, I cannot accept the degrading of another soul. Ever. This isn’t a question about loyalty to family. This is about commitment to the greater good of humanity.

Disappointment, ebbs in my heart. It would make some kind of absurd sense if I was born into a white British family, with links to slavery. But wait, my bloodline was born and bred in India. After the partition, we became us. However, before that our forefathers were also ruled by the British. My great grand uncle was actually killed in war, fighting for independence. Today, here we are. Brown skinned people judging others with brown skin too. Our superiority one of an absurd kind too. Do we continue to live in a cycle of interracial superiority? Are we that deprived that instead of one union we fight one another?

My feelings continue to evolve, as where this began as my stupid idiocy, it failed to end there. I came to the realisation that this may stem deeper than just my family. Please make no mistake, I cannot accept this behaviour, these attitudes, this ignorance from my family. I’m outrightly ashamed on their behalf. However, the thoughts linger. What generationally led to this moment where in 2017, two interracial souls cannot be embraced for their love?

I leave in the hope that one day my family will awaken from their narrow mindedness. And also that for anyone on this journey finds peace. Love is within our hearts, we create our differences by choices. I am no better than you. We are one soul. Here to fulfil our own promises.

Dream the reality you wish for, only then you will be truly able to live it.

Our hands united as one.

Enjoy your midnight mocha.

Cosmic Stardust


Love actually, has such an ill fated reputation. It’s proceeded by new age tinder hook ups, expressions of sexual freedom, the quick sand of never lasting. The endless possibilities of greener pastures winking at us from a distance. A world in which the shallow excitement of lust lingers in the air like fragrance.

Then there’s another world, where souls skilfully take charge of their very own destiny. Challenging limitless opportunity, all within their own inner realms. No real need to be seduced beyond themselves. By all means, I am not an old romantic, I didn’t exactly buy into all the love band aid melodrama. I in fact, believed in loving everyone unconditionally without limiting labels. However, whilst floating through this world of seeker souls, I literally fell in the mystical clutches of the cosmic love guru. Not at all wanting a lover of any kind.

He wasn’t teasing me with the idea of love. Hell no. He was offering unconditional love on a delicious platter of all those endearing qualities I ever wanted to find in others. All of it, in one single soul. Hard to believe as it is, one late evening, I found myself window shopping on a website for lonely souls. I was lonely less, bored more. At the time, something told me to stay online. Within moments, my senses tingled as the words on this page became electric. They were alive, singing in an intoxicating chant. My fingers unable to resist, with a will of there own, charging masterfully across my keyboard. Typing a sentence. Just one sentence.

“Cosmic calling. How do you reply?” 

Sighing in relief, I inhaled. It was as I if had suddenly been compelled to reply. Almost as if I had no choice. It was pure madness. He lived in the US. He wasn’t even looking for anything. Actually, I wasn’t looking for anything. He would never reply. With that thought in my mind, I shut down my laptop. Tonight, I was being stranger than my normal strange. Switching off the lights, I tucked myself away in my bed.

“He will reply.” Whispered my heart.

I fell into a sleep listless. Dreaming of more peculiarity than the norm. It was the 1st of July 2016. This date is imprinted on my soul. I will never forget it, regardless of the outcome. The energy charging my heart was incredibly powerful. I would never forget that feeling.

It wouldn’t be a love story, if he hadn’t replied. But we have a love story, so the cosmic love guru peddled his magic, wielding a wonderous path for us to travel. I feel in love with him, instantly. I think I had no choice. It was as if Cinderella’s fairy godmother had sprinkled magic dust and my Prince Charming, just stopped by whilst searching for the owner of one glass slipper.

His soul is beautifully honest, filled with love and laughter. He is like the rays of sunshine. He is the moonlight, brightening up midnight pathways. The fact that we live in two different countries,  was really no problem at all. Nothing was an obstacle within our unfolding love story. The time difference providing us with creative opportunities to express our gratitude for one another. Honestly, this was an uncomplicated long distance “platonic friendship- romance”. I believe that boils down to the mere truth- that we were individually fulfilled souls, working on our vulnerabilities. We were not willing to check into drama cycles craving to be rehashed.

I am sure the cosmic love guru stood proudly, when for the first time we locked eyes in Barbados 6 months later. Our souls finally meeting in the flesh. We were not strangers to one another. Our physical bodies, only completing our hearts messages. We had met long, long before. We needed no one to tell us otherwise. Three months later, in April 2017, we forged our alliance, in the way of a cosmic marriage. Together, we returned to our one home, our hearts. Now, this is where we live. In each other’s hearts, bursting with this explosive, passionate, crazy self consuming love. Our souls are on fire. Burning in the wander of our magical union.

I wish we could meet the cosmic love guru, to thank him for his blessing grateful. We will forever cherish this gift.

Eternally grateful souls. We look forward to our future as one.


Stardust drifting in the wings of the wind.