Not Even Once … Not Even Once …

Not even once

Not Even Once

… as I was brainstorming a scene, Remembrance (with rain in the background) playing in my earbuds, the below excerpt streamed through:

"Not even once.

Not even once have I been encouraged by my blood family to take the steps important for my truest self and my heart.

Not even once.

No. For certain, not even once.

Not even once have I been recognized for who I am.

Nevertheless, the Gentleman by the Straight recognized my brain and abilities… mostly creative that is.

Mostly based on the power of imagination.

Mostly hanging on words… in-between the two Bridges of the Spoken and of the Unspoken.

There are souls, out there, who simply understand our "religion".

Is it ours to hold and to keep?

Or is it, ours to cherish, universally?

It’s LOVE.

It pours drops of Roses dew, from the very Source, of everything, everything.

ON everything, everything.

Not even once

Not a real presence anymore.

Only a shadow.

Or, an important character of Life.

Verily, the Monsieur Madeleine of my story.

Not even once had she told me: "I know you can do it!"

Not even once… had she spoken a word…

one tiny word






That is visible …

no longer …

not in these dimensions of the here and the now.

Those characters of life I can see no more.

Could they be whirling in the loop of past tense?

All that lack of encouragement came crashing down,

smashing into the bricks and walls of my being, and

my truest self collided with the rope of words

saving the being,

one more time.

Not even once have I lent her my ears.

For not even once have I doubted I shall pop-out of the

Damascene Rose, again.

And again. Then, again!

Not even once have I doubted my love for writing.

An eternal craft marking our existence as human beings:

the Story.

Hence, words blend as stories of true love, heritage, and

life in the heart of the Damascene Rose.

Ever since the alphabet stemmed from Phoenicia's

womb, in Byblos, ever since I could read and write,

write and read,

I have breathed in and exuded communication.

But for words, what would my life be?

After the dance of the soul,

the rhymes of the hearts,

the touch of feeling,

the penetrative glaze,

the velvet kiss…

there is the Power of the Word.

Not even once have I doubted my love for the word…



or sung.

Right over here,

sitting on the couch I had asked my Higher Self:

"What now?"

I could hear the response in my head saying through


"You know 6 languages.



Express yourself.

                                         Hence, write.

Read as much as you can.


And then keep on walking.

And writing."

Hence, the story is in progress.
We live and the story is in progress.

Once we trust the story,

the story has to honor us back,

somehow and in some way.

But how?

Well... Story has its mysterious ways.

By God, not even once have I doubted

that I shall pop-up

from the Damascene Rose

into a




right through

a brand new door Eleven, reading:

The 100% Authentic I Am.”


Until next post, a Rse, from me to You

Photo: Pinterest

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