i am liquid, i am moonlight, i am many stories, yet i am beyond the stories i tell & write.

my stories are sometimes quasi-autobiographical, ofttimes elaboration. i have created a world – in writings and storytellings and musings – of my own since i was very young. i envisioned myself a fairy princess living in a magical place, in order to escape the intense harshness and sur-realities of my childhood. i interwove the real world with my fantasy land centered around immortal magical beings – both good and bad, light and dark – but all under my dominion.

my stories have been allusions and parables and alternate universes and romantic voyages influenced by fairy tales and nightmares and fantasies and realities and daydreams. they contain archetypal characters and ancient mythological dramatic situations twisted and re-imagined in past times and present days and futuristic imaginations with hopes and fears, inspirations and aspirations, all entwined throughout.

i am the person in my stories, but then i am not – because i would not want my waking life as dramatic or poetic or romantic or synthetic as the characters and places i write about and dream about.

i put my art and poetry and spirit and song into writing my stories, but i place my heart and my soul and my brilliance into my breath, my loved ones, my living.

since i cannot truly describe my life in words or pictures or songs because it is continually adapting and transforming and flowing, i don’t think anyone can really understand the real me, or even if that me is real (nor would i want them to). they see me, they feel me, they hear me, they may even judge me, but they can’t breathe me or pinpoint me or fathom me or unravel me. so i write about the fictional me, the fluid and faithful and immortal me. and that chronicle and illustration and story of me is different and new every day, so i have a thousand and one versions and interpretations and sensations of me – on paper and on line, in song and in story, in color and in starlight, in people who love me and who fear me.

i am continually discovering and becoming me, so how can anyone else comprehend me? my writings merely describe a glimpse of me or a piece of me, at a particular moment in time and in space and in retrospect and in foreshadows. the moment i think or say or write the words to describe the sensations, the visions, the sounds, it is changed and it is inaccurate, it is mist and it is ether, thusly becoming fable and allegory and invention – the moonless me, the luminous me, the headstrong me, the unsinkable me, the unknowable me.

i write my memoirs as an angel faery witch because my lucid dreams and my fairytales and my fictional novellas are an interesting place for me to explore and over-think and discover and dissect and become, and then relinquish and escape.

i inspire & i create words & pictures with each breath in, and i write & draw them in my memory with each breath out ~ it is fluid, it flows, it is impromptu, it is out my control ~ but it does not replace my life nor consume my life – anymore – it merely is the surplus and the overspill of my passion, my love, my soul, my peace, my mind.

i am far more fascinated by people than by writing my stories, and i am more inspired by loving companionship than writing my stories; i am more aroused by gentle caressing and long embracing than writing my stories, and i am more intrigued by breathing in life & breathing out love than writing my stories. and like the eloquent Anaïs NIN, i am “more interested in becoming a work of art than in creating one.” and i identify with her struggle and anguish of having one’s sincerity about themselves – their work, their art, their being – mistaken for pretense or conceit. yet, i continue to profess who i imagine i am, and i persevere to reveal my mystical & mythical self in poetic pieces, romantic rhymes, and prepossessing pictures.

i have come to realize – and i finally accept – i am best at loving partnership and lifelong companionship ~ the art and the writing are the fragments and pieces of impressions and expressions from my interconnections and intimate relationships, that i ofttimes gather up and arrange into those words and pictures and musical notes ~ yet all are beyond comprehension since they are quantum nonlocal particles of my being, which i may elaborate upon, in detail, at another time.

so i kindly request that one considers i am not my stories, tho shards of me are interwoven within them, and sometimes i have experienced life in a parallel universe to them.

and i hope that the day before i draw in my last mortal breath – before my body becomes dust, and my thoughts become plasma, and my soul becomes starlight – that i will have found my quantum entangled soul mate who imagined all this with me, lived many stories with me, experienced those faery-tales with me, shared those dreams with me, overcame fears with me, felt enlightenment & bliss with me, heard a few symphonies & tragedies with me ~ and knows it was all true, all real, all immortal, all worth it. then my essence may envelop his body, and permeate his thoughts, and remain entangled with his soul, with our story infused beyond any time or space or place.

not much, a.d.o.

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{PREFACE: memoirs of an angel faery witch}

« i am not my stories, tho shards of me are interwoven within them, and sometimes i have experienced life in a parallel universe to them» ~ Angebel D’Or {iPhone 5 photo by sarah nean bruce}