Where no one can hurt me …

Sometimes I think I live in a bubble.

I surround myself in a comfort blanket of unreality where death is only imagined and pain is a lesson.

Where the fight is a journey, a fence hurdled, a mountain climbed.

And victory is the sweet overcoming of my own creation.

And I draw the blanket around myself as I create, pulling in reality for validity and credibility — but it can’t harm.

The suffering, though imagined, does draw from truths, and the lessons of the work  validated in changed thinking.

But in that bubble I feel safe.

I am safe.

Aren’t I?

I stand in my bubble with my hands pressed to a film — a surface so fine it’s already gone.

And yet it connects to everything. And nothing.

Yesterday another senseless act of violence in London.



I sip from a glass that’s full, see through the rainbow of a bubble.

I know one day I will use what I saw yesterday to tell another story, another face, another name, but the same.

I will weave meaning from senseless. It’s how I survive. It’s what I do. A President shot on a crowded Dallas street.

History reshaped by a writer of untruths and truths — side by side.

But not today.

Today I watch.

Today I stand in my bubble and believe we are all safe.




Roll silent credits



Filed under 50th anniversary of Kennedy Assassination, Conflict, Conflict in fiction, Creating fictional worlds, Dreaming, ideas, Indentity, John F Kennedy, Kennedy, Learning to be a writer, Leitmotifs and symbolism in Literature, Living the dream, Loss, Novel writing, Passion for life, Passion for writing, Psychological Thriller, Publishing, Reading, time to think, Truth in Fiction, Writing

3 responses to “Where no one can hurt me …

  1. Paula Readman

    I’m lost for words… With eye for an eye no one knows where it will end. Does the whole world have to become blind?

  2. Poignant and beautiful, thank you.

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