generations.
Deep roots connected her essence to a Christian faith. Juno often ventured to the Santa Maria della Vittoria to empathize with the suffering human condition, as depicted by the Ecstasy of St. Teresa. She could feel the fire of heaven scorning the damned heart, and knew the beauty and importance of purging negative energy through positive channels. Her mind was constantly musing, which left her studies an afterthought; creativity was a through street, mapped by her soul.
She grew up in a stable environment, compelled to give back. Participating in various children's ministries and women-focused expatriate groups, she made Rome feel like home. Time was an offering, consumed by volunteer driven soup kitchens and Sunday morning baptismal classes; it was a labor of love. Divinity was an unacknowledged hand guiding Christ-followers to the sacred waters of salvation, lurking just beyond the line on the horizon.
Her style was simple, but inspired. She rarely bothered with the trappings of an undiagnosed make-up addiction. The natural beauty of her long wavy red hair, freckles, green eyes and lushly positive confidence spoke in quakes. To Juno, a flattering solid-colored dress, splashed with an accent belt, was an evolution from deliberately distracting patterns, distancing her far from the repugnant geometric anomaly known as paisley. She'd harnessed the power of simplicity and reveled in authenticity.
Her dreams started like the others, though she never saw them as disturbing or frightening. They were a transmitter for speaking to God. Sometimes startled, she'd use her nervous midnight energy to create inspired dance routines; recalling their enigmatic calling was a box step away. She was willing to trust God's plan for her life and believed she was a predestined instrument of purpose.
Juno never took her life for granted. She was born a twin, but her sister died in utero.
She lived like a tribute.
Survival instincts sharpen our awareness to kindred spirits. Though thoroughly perplexed by the intuitive nature of the third eye or why certain vibrations are compatible, it's entirely fathomable to meet utter strangers and know their inner psyche without exchanging a word. As clairvoyance tightens, snap judgments become an impulse. Juno was in tune with such signals.
+++
I scrambled through static. After long and overly-analytical hours on the road to nowhere, I was able to find the proper channels. In an instant, I could distinguish between those eagerly traveling toward the western Promised Land, the misplaced, displaced or drug-addled, and the unfortunate souls, passing through the complacency of another day. Of course, vanity plates didn't hinder my investigation. Once a baited connection hooked a fellow road warrior, an unspoken pact developed. The rules implied commandeering a look-out for breakdowns, stranger danger or drifting.
Hoping to lure free-spirited females, my preoccupied eyes spun lustful webs. A few California Dreamin' dames, motoring a cross country expedition to Santa Barbara, were lassoed by my lashes; devoid of lip service, we blueprinted our libidos on sprawling dashboards and let the wiles of our imagination marinate over a hundred lascivious miles. Introductions were a formality, long-forgotten by climaxing pit stops to the Garden.
Due to the inexplicable odds of biting into the forbidden fruit on the open road, these tattooed memories are still a welcome haunting; explicitly dancing in my frontal lobe, forevermore. These chance events only prove the intimacy of human souls and our inherent need for socialization, security and lust; after all, everyone has an
Deep roots connected her essence to a Christian faith. Juno often ventured to the Santa Maria della Vittoria to empathize with the suffering human condition, as depicted by the Ecstasy of St. Teresa. She could feel the fire of heaven scorning the damned heart, and knew the beauty and importance of purging negative energy through positive channels. Her mind was constantly musing, which left her studies an afterthought; creativity was a through street, mapped by her soul.
She grew up in a stable environment, compelled to give back. Participating in various children's ministries and women-focused expatriate groups, she made Rome feel like home. Time was an offering, consumed by volunteer driven soup kitchens and Sunday morning baptismal classes; it was a labor of love. Divinity was an unacknowledged hand guiding Christ-followers to the sacred waters of salvation, lurking just beyond the line on the horizon.
Her style was simple, but inspired. She rarely bothered with the trappings of an undiagnosed make-up addiction. The natural beauty of her long wavy red hair, freckles, green eyes and lushly positive confidence spoke in quakes. To Juno, a flattering solid-colored dress, splashed with an accent belt, was an evolution from deliberately distracting patterns, distancing her far from the repugnant geometric anomaly known as paisley. She'd harnessed the power of simplicity and reveled in authenticity.
Her dreams started like the others, though she never saw them as disturbing or frightening. They were a transmitter for speaking to God. Sometimes startled, she'd use her nervous midnight energy to create inspired dance routines; recalling their enigmatic calling was a box step away. She was willing to trust God's plan for her life and believed she was a predestined instrument of purpose.
Juno never took her life for granted. She was born a twin, but her sister died in utero.
She lived like a tribute.
Survival instincts sharpen our awareness to kindred spirits. Though thoroughly perplexed by the intuitive nature of the third eye or why certain vibrations are compatible, it's entirely fathomable to meet utter strangers and know their inner psyche without exchanging a word. As clairvoyance tightens, snap judgments become an impulse. Juno was in tune with such signals.
+++
I scrambled through static. After long and overly-analytical hours on the road to nowhere, I was able to find the proper channels. In an instant, I could distinguish between those eagerly traveling toward the western Promised Land, the misplaced, displaced or drug-addled, and the unfortunate souls, passing through the complacency of another day. Of course, vanity plates didn't hinder my investigation. Once a baited connection hooked a fellow road warrior, an unspoken pact developed. The rules implied commandeering a look-out for breakdowns, stranger danger or drifting.
Hoping to lure free-spirited females, my preoccupied eyes spun lustful webs. A few California Dreamin' dames, motoring a cross country expedition to Santa Barbara, were lassoed by my lashes; devoid of lip service, we blueprinted our libidos on sprawling dashboards and let the wiles of our imagination marinate over a hundred lascivious miles. Introductions were a formality, long-forgotten by climaxing pit stops to the Garden.
Due to the inexplicable odds of biting into the forbidden fruit on the open road, these tattooed memories are still a welcome haunting; explicitly dancing in my frontal lobe, forevermore. These chance events only prove the intimacy of human souls and our inherent need for socialization, security and lust; after all, everyone has an
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