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  • Victoria Duncan

Writing Collections

Do you ever feel like you can be more yourself with strangers than those you are closest to?


She watched her go. She replayed that moment - as if in slow motion. She watched as she moved forward without looking back.

She sat there, thinking, feeling, sinking deeper and deeper into the couch cushion. What just happened? Why did this happen? And what now? She has been going through life with such a driving momentum-- an eagerness to continue. An excitement, and enjoyment. A passion. And now--- She sits, sinking.

How and why did they get to this point? She replays and replays every moment, every argument. She remembers with dread as the emotions errupt into fits of tears, to boiling anger. She remembers the sting of shame. She remembers the confusion, the blaming every moment on her own actions and her own character flaws.

But she was perfect. Her face, her lips. Her joyous nature. Her capacity to love every human. Her confidence and her humor. Her quirks. Her favorite snacks. Her favorite books and films. Her philosophies on life. She remembers the good things. She remembers her making her feel like she was just as great. She remembers feeling invincible as long as she was with this other human.

And now, the stamina, the momentum, has come to a dramatic halt. And there is nothing left to do. Just empty air. Just white noise.


The hours - simple, elegant.

The beauty of mistake. The beauty of destruction, of instinct, of heartache. Is it beautiful?

Of isolation. Of antagonism.

My life. My world. I go. I realize. I lay here.

In dandelions. Orchids among us.

But it is all a lie.


Is it the way out? Is it the path to salvation?

I have tried so many years. Is my energy running thin?

Am I a quitter, am I a thinker? Am I a revolver, a spinner, gears moving, globe turning, life evolving. What’s gone is lost. What’s gone is bitter, a memory, in all its elegance, mystical in its longevity, it is always there, haunting like a virus, touching us but never really there.

I can’t take it anymore, why do I do this, why do I think, am I alone, am I free, am I a giver, a lover, a loser, a chooser, a liar? To myself, to my family, to my forgiveness.

Am I real at all and I or are they an illusion?

Do I keep going, am I worthy of the fight, am I one in a million or like all the rest?

Violins chime, how is beauty created in a world of violence, of disorganization, but the music makes it all make sense, makes it all worthwhile, adds the calm, adds the chaos, adds the driving force of life to keep going, repeating, repeating, going, repeating, in a trance, like a working bee with no conscious, like a robot following God’s will.

But do I have the power, do I have my own future, in the world, in the grasp of others, so magic can be brought to humanity, so I can touch others, so I can make a difference?

But all is still. There is no absolution.

But the music is beautiful, it adds to my world, my ideas.

But it has to end - fantasies are no more real than fiction.

One last flicker, everything comes to an end.

Everything strives for more -- but the memory leaves an imprint on the world.


I remember when I was 12 – that was my peak age. My imagination had peaked in a way where I felt a jolt of invincibility. I felt like I could invent absolutely anything, go absolutely anywhere as long as I had my brain to guide me. My brain was my best friend, and I cared about it way more than any person or object. It gave me a world where I could create to my own desires. It could give me the ultimate joy. The things that provoked my imagination and made it absolutely soar were movies, classical music and film soundtracks, and playing with my American Girl dolls. I shamelessly collected the furniture, clothes, and accessories that coincided with various time period in history. I was absolutely in awe of the accuracy, the detail, the care and precision that went into every item. How each item put me in a different time and place. They showed me how you kept your room warm at night in the 1800s and how it differed from the 1700s. How to write an essay in the 1930s. I wanted so badly to travel back in time and I believed it so strongly that I once believed that if I closed my eyes, I could open them and emerge in 1774.

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