megna musings
creative elements drawn from my life of yoga
east village, nyc.
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excerpt from a short story about a woman scientist named Rika
He smoked most of the joint, smiled beatifically, and walked me to my car. I promised I would come see him for class again soon, thanked him for his time, and then, when I was sure he had walked a bit away, I opened the back door of the car, got in, closed the door…
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water
Stand by the water when the moon rises heavy, ethereal and precious because you cannot hold it. All you can have is its color, the ribbons of silver that will throw itself at you, rippling infinitely closer, so close you cannot remember whether it is coming for you or if you had actually come here…
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Fire
Where does it come from, fire? Not the match on the box, or the flick of propane at the stove, though I am curious of those too— the human technology far more integral to my life than the wifi I unplug at bedtime and forget to plug back in until 6pm, 9pm, the day having…
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From a short story about a girl named Rumi
Sacrosanct is how I felt sitting in the park, thinking. This is a crime against wisdom, I would realize between thoughts, and with this sharpeness of realization piercing the cocoon of my own creation the space would rush into my mind with all the cleansing solace of pure listening. Breath filled my ears and my…
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Draft from a short story about an undergrad named Audrey
Sometimes I get busy as hell in my head, and suddenly I realize that my body’s gone numb and dark, so I close my eyes a moment and bring it back online. Like reassembling myself. And it’s not easy, pulling my mind out of my problems and back into my body. All my awareness wants…
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