Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school teacher, a psychic medium – reader and advisor.
The leaves outside sway lightly and I'm reminded of the beautiful way you danced in that purple gown, the one that caught the shimmer of the low moon, sketching the evening's rendezvous with brilliant white demons that reflected ceaselessly upon your brown eyes. When night comes on, gently, like this, I can dream once again. The background fades into someone else’s face, someone else’s snapshot, left in the darkness of perpetual motion, where the timing of independent objects renders space helpless to the simplicity of casual memory. For a moment, it seems like a breeze turning back the pages of an open book, a diary of sorts perhaps, that precipitates the climate of a collective past with little nudges of enthusiasm, meaningful only to those who know the vacancy of an assimilated state; refining it back to a lie, shadowed and invisible. I see myself the way I used to be, when your love fed my inspiration at random, locking into place meaningful sketches that were nondescript, secretive, yet poetically universal in their mystery. Sometimes the momentum of conviction can bring about nostalgia, ignoring the apparent. The night’s wind self-propels the blind, and in its inertia fails to acknowledge truth, but the sun makes its way across the distance nonetheless, flickering over twilight with no fixed point, marking the blueprint where blackness lay, insignificant to the wisdom of wanting action. It is here where you slowly start to disappear, as I awaken, and walk away.
Brick by brick I built a subtle, secure wall around myself. The color of dried blood became an illusive molecular mystery that shaped the canvas of my psyche, separating you successfully enough from the benevolent fortress of ire and ardent desire. Who'd of thought that the maximum sentence for dereliction would become an eternity? I often write in my journal about you, sitting for hours in solitude and introspection. The pages, like pliable hypnotic poppies, prefer small talk to romance, yet I accept the fact that matter has begun to yield its innermost secrets. What exactly is the evanescent reality mirrored in the syntax of our words? Should it be believed? Is it comprehensive enough to bear witness without verging on being idolatrous? It isn't so much the language but the tone of the expression that risks misunderstanding. You say you love me, from a couple of hundred miles away, yet I can't grasp your hands, look into your eyes, speak my pleasure in my feelings for you, without remembering that love too can be betrayed. It's true, I have a flair for stubborn silence, and you, for the last word, but here among these pages there are no trust issues, just the coping of something bigger than ourselves, brought line by line unto this book. I fear you as much as I love you. The power to hurt me deeply is within your reach. I carried a crate of apples yesterday, and picked through them as my verbal powers failed. My heart beating was almost at breaking point and then I saw it, the fire energy within the blossoms. Warmth, passion, offered me renewed strength. With a penetrating gaze I was taken back to the apple island, the mystical isle of Avalon where Celtic heroes have found eternal rest. In my vision, I believed in fairy tales and happy endings once again. I believed that true love could overcome blind frivolity, and I believed that courage could be splendid, making life experiences unforgettable. This is where obsidian rocks burst like bubbles, where the shadowy corners of my mind found fulfillness and illumination with your presence. This is where the bricks fell as your words ran through my mind, your love, through my heart. This is where impossibility found hope. And so I ask you, will you not meet me in Iduna's apple orchard? Asgard awaits us, under a brilliant rainbow.
Transient colors fling amid a circle of unfolding insect-wings, pacing under the silent insomnia of luminous stars. Dipping waves of rings aerial whispers of purple spins, sink into ever-mingling dyes of purest play. Transformed cones of speckled white, pumice falls by sacred rite, as mystic creatures maze and guide the way. Dancing fires celestials know a watchful sprite salutes and shows, the varying vanities that hang in bluish air. A wise man's passion, a vain man's tale, a sylph that warns the pitying audience the threats of fate; while Themis suspends her golden scales, weighing the wits of men, directing pungent grains of ash and dust with angst and hate.