The Best Of


“Writing is not life, but I think that sometimes it can be a way back to life.”  -- STEPHEN KING

A compilation of The Mayden's proudest moments.

a bird's eye view of my inner workings

What I had not realize was that with pulling up just any image, the arrow that I had shot, sifting through clouds, had strung together stars that made up a constellation. My constellation. A constellation that, when connected, resembles the anatomy of a clumsy five foot six hopeless romantic in search of stories to tell and lives to collect.

on losing and finding myself

This year has been a year of self-discovery, the harshest year by far for the little, inexperienced me. I've fallen onto the knees of self-pity on this ride several times along, been floored by my blind ignorance and tumbled over as I took the wrong roads. I have lost along the way -- budding friendships and hope -- but in loss, I have also found.

on friendships
"A little bit fucked up in the head" was the phrase most of us identified with and yet, there we were -- in a room where there was no judgement, just an exchanging and understanding of stories, a trade of hearts and souls.

on chasing the trivial
Sitting here now with a sane mind intact, the memory becomes a ludicrous lucidness, an almost laughable picture of chasing rainbows and stars hoping to find pots of gold, treasures untold. We reach for the twinkling strings of light not realizing that wisps of air, like evanescing rhapsodic craves of a sinless world, cannot be caught.

on self-forgiveness and liberation

I am blue today, blue like the sky, blue like the ocean, blue like the encapsulating sense of freedom that horizons and clouds of puff bring. Standing on cushiony sand looking out onto the horizon, there is liberation in the heart of this castaway, chains breaking and snapping, thorns peeling and dying.

on individuality and conformity
...and despite what we do, despite how we try to stray from being "the same as everyone else," we will undeniably be hit, if only feather lightly, by an action which will henceforth result in change, if only minuscule or microscopic, within ourselves. 

on fleeting moments

As the clouds storm the sky, the moment flees into the dusk, into stars studding a dark, desolate canvas, and as they dance in the sky, flickering, they become nothing but memories left to be relived.

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