Our lives are made up of moments, moments which define us, make us who we are. If a writer gives himself to his story, gives every instant, every flaw, trial and tribulation, every joy, ray of sunshine, then he does right by his story.
‘Twas a cold, bleak day in the month of December, in an island not known to the other inhabitants of an absurdly ignorant planet called Earth, where a little girl of twelve decided to go for a stroll. A tiny dot under the A of the Adriatic Sea, lost to its rustic tunes, far removed from the generation thriving with technological advances. Yes, they lived in a world that did not bank on cell phones, the television, computers, electric toasters even! They were a land of words and song, of love and hope, of compassion and romanticism. Their songs were of an ancient notion, all that governed them was love and hope. The Magic, they called it. Continue reading