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Nonfiction | Maxims of Woman

  • Writer: EM Martin
    EM Martin
  • Jun 28, 2020
  • 1 min read

Updated: Jul 9, 2020



You are not a story; any story you are told about yourself is an insult to the possibilities of your grace



One learns about perfection in the perfect imitation, one experiences perfection in rejection of all but oneself



But it never was that hard to see yourself in her, was it?



Love is not nameable




The pleasure of a sun ripened tomato, split between the teeth, will tell you everything





Vanishings open us to see the spaces inside, with acceptance the world expands infinitely




Begin again, like a raspberry bush that was almost lost in the scrimmage of winter, you will fruit again





Driven by ourselves alone, life is a conundrum



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(This is an ongoing project for me and if you have a truth that your heart knows, please send it to me - the message box on the site can be used anonymously.)




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