Edge of Sanity

Postcard…

Sometimes, my friends, the ones that exist in the tiny breaths of my thought beats, like to call me Cleo. I tell them to stop. I rarely find myself frolicking in the midst of laziness. I never liked nicknames. I am sure this ‘Nick’ gentleman cares not for his name being used in such dormancy either. A name like Cleo belongs to a person with no dreams. Certainly not to a woman with stature like mine. Although my dreams can scare the hardest of patrons, I do dream. Cleo is an individual who lacks the basic potency of life. Yes, a soul like Cleo faintly passes through life, courteously moving out of the way for Caesar’s and Antony’s all the while hiding amongst thick shadows of the ignored aspirations that dry up and swell down in the dim lighting of her being. I am no Cleo. No,

never a woman like me…