A Journey of One

It's incredible to look back when I self-published the book " A Journey of One" over ten years ago, in 2014, and what strikes me now is how much these words still resonate with my journey .. 
So much has changed since then, yet the raw passion and unfiltered love of that teenage self still leap from every line. It's a powerful reminder that some truths are timeless.

.:THE GUIDED REFLECTION:.

  • Blessings in the Form of People: The Scribe’s Silence

    She asked me, “Why are you not writing anymore?”

    I went quiet. I didn’t know how to respond. How can you respond when there are no words, signs, or tokens for what I can feel, for what I can see, for what I can experience? How to tell her that whatever I write has already been written, and we are all just the scribes of one true Creator, trying to decode the message?

    Maybe you think this is all just an excuse and I’ve grown lazy. Maybe that’s true in some sort, but I will ask you: who is the one who gives the inspiration to create, to love, to desire, to share? If I don’t feel like I’m the one who needs to write at the moment, if I don’t feel it in the depths of my soul, do I need to force it? It seems that nowadays, we are all trying to force something that is not part of the true essence of our soul.

    Throughout my life, all my blessings came in the form of other people. All my desires and passions were a mirror of the reality which I lived, which I experienced with others. I desired to learn how to care for others, and the Creator brought me a mother who cares for me more than for herself. I desired to experience art and music, and the Creator brought me to her. I desired to be pushed intellectually, and the Creator gave me a person with whom I spent seven years of my youthful formation, who pushed just enough. I wanted to convert to Judaism and have a beautiful family, and the Creator gave me a person who will be the foundation of my journey. I desired to be ambitious and in politics, and the Creator brought me to a person who is more than what I ever desired.

    Many things, as many of us, I have done and not done in fear of not being accepted, not being understood; the fear of being alone with myself. The fear of looking myself in the mirror and hearing the voice of my soul, which is beyond time and space, yearning to be free.

    Did I break the rules? The teaching of the Torah? Did I do all of this just for myself? Maybe I did. Maybe I pushed just a bit more than what was needed. But who gave me the power, the will? Who pushed me beyond the firmament and back, if not the Creator themselves?

    All of you were my creators, the messengers from the one True, and I love all of it—the darkness and light which you gave me—as the blessings of the Creator always come in the form of other people.

    One phrase is on my mind at this time: “seven need to die so one can live.”

    I have a feeling that I went through the flood, through all my fears and trials. Maybe by looking myself in the mirror, I killed seven of me—even the best ones—so just one can live. And maybe it’s my time to follow the essence of my soul, which I can still hear screaming the words:

    “I desire to be where all things become. I desire eternity. I deserve to know more. I am boldness.”

    So I’m not giving up on more light, for she is me and I am her. But one thing will be different: when I speak to you, I know now that I speak to the Creator.

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    David E. Kiefermond

  • The Shadow in the Sand: A Map Without a Legend

    The air in the desert was a vast, silent weight, a canvas of endless blue. For Elias, a man who had spent his entire life in the claustrophobic confines of a big city, the open sky was a terrifying thing. He’d come to this remote corner of New Mexico on a whim, a flight from the persona he had so meticulously constructed—the data analyst, the man of logic, the ego built on the predictability of numbers. Here, in this barren landscape, his carefully maintained persona was crumbling, and a shadow self, a wild and untamed thing, was beginning to emerge.

    The first few days were a kind of torture. The silence was deafening, a void where the city’s ceaseless noise had once been a comforting shield. There were no sirens, no distant laughter, no hum of traffic to fill the emptiness. It was here, in this solitude, that his unconscious began to speak. He was confronted not by the world, but by the raw, unedited archetypes of his own psyche. The sheer number of stars at night felt like an assault on his senses, a chaotic, unmappable spectacle that defied the “cosmic order” he had always believed in. He felt utterly and completely alone, a tiny, insignificant speck in a landscape that didn’t care that he existed.

    One morning, he found himself drawn to a single, gnarled juniper tree standing alone on a ridge. It wasn’t a hero, a king, or a father figure, but something more primal, more deeply rooted. Its branches were twisted into impossible shapes, its bark cracked and scarred, a testament to a life lived against the harsh, unforgiving elements. He sat beneath its sparse shade, and for the first time, he didn’t feel the need to categorize or analyze it. He just felt its presence—an echo of the Wise Old Man archetype, an image of resilience and timeless wisdom. He was looking at a part of the collective unconscious, a symbol that spoke a language his rational mind couldn’t understand.

    Hours passed. The sun moved across the sky, and Elias watched the shadows of the twisted branches dance on the red earth. He noticed a lizard, a flash of emerald green, basking on a warm rock, its tiny chest rising and falling in perfect, rhythmic peace. A hawk circled lazily high above, a patient guardian of the vast emptiness. There was no striving here, no competition, no need to perform. The tree was simply a tree, the lizard a lizard, the hawk a hawk. Each one was perfectly and unapologetically itself, belonging completely to this place. He saw them not as individual creatures, but as living manifestations of the Self, the unifying archetype that holds all of our contradictory parts in a harmonious whole.

    He thought of his own life, of the endless striving of his Ego to be a better version of himself, to fit into a predictable mold. He had craved belonging, but had always tried to earn it by becoming a version of himself that was an idealized, and ultimately false, persona. As the sun began to set, painting the sky in colors no data set could ever predict, a profound peace washed over him. The desert had not changed him; it had simply allowed his true self to emerge. He was not a data point. He was not a set of metrics. He was a human being, with his own twisted branches, his own scars from the hard winds of life.

    He stood up, and for the first time, he didn’t feel small. He felt vast. He looked out at the endless desert, and instead of feeling alone, he felt an undeniable connection to everything. The tree, the lizard, the hawk—they were all a part of this landscape, and so was he. He was not just in the desert; he was of it. He was a part of its silent, defiant perfection. He had stopped fighting the shadow, the wild, untamed part of himself he had suppressed, and had finally integrated it. The journey he had thought was about a change of location was, in fact, a journey toward individuation. He was finally home, not in a flawless city, but within his own perfectly flawed and wonderfully complex self.

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    David E. Kiefermond

  • A Quiet Alchemy: The Empath and the Willow

    The city was a constant, low-grade hum, a river of people and sound that flowed endlessly. For Elara, the noise had become a barrier, a wall between herself and the world. She was an empath, not in the way the new-age books described, but in a way that felt like a curse. She felt not just the emotions of those around her, but their exhaustion, their stress, their anxieties—a thousand tiny weights pressing down on her shoulders. She had learned to retreat, to build her own walls, spending her days in a small, quiet apartment, a fortress of solitude against the overwhelming tide of urban life.

    Why do I feel so much? Is there something wrong with me? I just want to feel… less.

    One afternoon, seeking refuge, she found herself in a small, forgotten park tucked between two skyscrapers. It was a space of defiant beauty, a single ancient willow tree standing guard over a patch of wildflowers that had fought their way through the cracks in the pavement. As she sat on a weathered bench, a young boy, no older than seven, came and sat beside her. He wasn’t radiating the usual chaotic energy of a child; instead, a quiet, focused intensity emanated from him.

    He was meticulously drawing in a sketchbook, his face a mask of profound concentration. He wasn’t sketching the tree or the flowers; he was drawing the light. He captured the way the sun broke through the leaves, the golden streaks on the pavement, the way it made the dust motes dance in the air. His hand moved with a fluid, effortless grace, and as he drew, a warmth began to radiate from him, a peaceful, focused energy that felt like a quiet sunbeam on Elara’s skin. It was an energy of creation, of singular purpose. He wasn’t taking from the world; he was translating it, absorbing its scattered beauty and turning it into something whole.

    He’s not fighting the noise. He’s using it. The world isn’t just a storm to him; it’s a source.

    Later, as the boy’s mother called for him, he closed his book and left. Elara, still bathed in the afterglow of his focus, looked at the willow tree. She had always seen it as an anchor of peace, but now she saw it as a collector. Its leaves weren’t just absorbing sunlight; they were absorbing the energy of the rain and the wind, the passing laughter and the quiet solitude of the people who sat beneath it. It took the scattered, chaotic energy of the world and wove it into a steady, green life force.

    I’ve been doing it all wrong. I’ve been trying to block everything out. What if I’m not a curse, but a collector? What if I’m a willow tree?

    It struck her then that her overwhelming empathy wasn’t a burden to be avoided, but a resource to be mastered. The noise wasn’t meant to drown her; it was the raw material for her own unique creation. The chaos she felt wasn’t a sign of weakness, but a sign of her profound connection to the world around her. She had a choice: she could continue to be a victim of the energy, or she could become its alchemist.

    She got out her own notebook, a blank, intimidating thing she had bought years ago and never used. Instead of writing about her own emotions, she began to write about the energy around her—the feeling of the sunlight on her face, the way the willow leaves rustled, the soft warmth of the boy’s focused calm. She was no longer a passive observer; she was a conductor, taking the scattered notes and weaving them into her own composition.

    As she wrote, the noise of the city didn’t disappear, but it changed. The chaotic roar became a symphony. The honking of cars was a percussion beat, the distant sirens a mournful horn, the laughter from a nearby café a chorus. She wasn’t just feeling the energy; she was collecting it, transforming it, making it her own. She was no longer just an empath; she was a creator. She was no longer seeking a way to feel less; she was learning how to feel more, and in doing so, she was finally home within herself.

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    David E. Kiefermond

  • The Architect’s Cracks: The Potter’s Mark

    The city was a grid of glass and steel, a testament to human ambition and a monument to flawless design. It was a world of sharp angles and polished surfaces, where every flaw was a failure and every imperfection was edited out. In this city lived Elias, an architect who had forged his own existence in the image of its merciless order. His apartment was a minimalist tomb, his schedule a tyrant, and his heart—a sterile, empty chamber sealed against the chaos of human feeling. He was a man-made monument, and he was shattering from within.

    One blustery afternoon, a package arrived, a relic from a world he had long since abandoned. It was from his grandmother, a woman whose every laugh was a loud, messy song, whose every story meandered like a lost river. Inside, nestled in crinkled newspaper, was a ceramic bowl. It wasn’t merely imperfect; it was a defiant act of rebellion against the clean lines of his life. The glaze, a violent swirl of blues and greens, bled into itself in a messy, unpredictable storm. The rim was lopsided, a crooked, unapologetic smirk, and near the base, a single, thumb-sized dent marked where the clay had been pressed just a little too hard.

    He felt a cold, sharp anger. This was not a gift; it was an accusation. It was a tangible piece of the very chaos he had spent his life escaping. He set it aside, intending to bury it in a cabinet, to exile its flaws from his world of ruthless precision. But later that night, as he sat down to a perfectly portioned, perfectly symmetrical meal, his eye was drawn to the bowl. The light from the window didn’t just illuminate its surface; it ignited a fire within its depths. The uneven glaze seemed to writhe and deepen, a chaotic masterpiece. The lopsided rim cast a soft, playful shadow, and the dent, the thumbprint—it was a wound, a mark of a human hand, a signature of love and effort that could not be erased.

    He thought of his grandmother. Her flaws were not flaws; they were her. Her loud, joyous laugh. The meandering tales of her life, full of unexpected detours. The mismatched socks she wore like a banner of freedom. He had loved her, of course, but from a distance, a fortress he had built to protect himself from the very messy humanity she so freely embodied.

    Now, looking at the bowl, he saw her, and he saw himself. He saw the violent, unpredictable swirl of colors that was her life, and he saw the empty, sterile perfection of his own. He had spent his existence trying to sand away his rough edges, to edit out the emotional, the messy, the human. He had tried to be a flawless monument, a perfect artifact, but in doing so, he had become a beautiful, empty vessel.

    He reached out and traced the thumbprint on the bowl, a silent confession. The clay was cold, but the connection was a shock of warmth. He wasn’t a flaw in a perfect world. He was a perfect example of imperfect human nature, and that, in itself, was a kind of staggering beauty. The dent was not a mistake; it was the mark of a creator, an imprint that said, “I was here. I lived. I am flawed. And I am whole.”

    The next morning, he made a simple breakfast and served it in the ceramic bowl. The meal wasn’t just nourishment; it was an act of surrender. The food tasted more real, more alive. He wasn’t just a man eating breakfast; he was a human, full of beautiful dents and glorious smudges, a perfect product of an imperfect existence. He was finally home, not in a flawless city, but within his own perfectly flawed self. The fear was gone, replaced by a quiet, fierce acceptance.

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    David E. Kiefermond

  • Fear’s Façade: The Unseen Life

    The chipped ceramic mug warmed Amelia’s hands, but the chill inside her remained. Outside her Brooklyn apartment window, the city thrummed with a Friday night energy, a symphony of car horns and distant laughter that felt both alluring and menacing. She should be out there, she knew. Her friends were probably at that new rooftop bar in Williamsburg, their Instagram stories already painting a picture of vibrant connection. But the thought of navigating that crowd, of making small talk, of being seen… it tightened a knot in her chest.

    Fear had always been a quiet tenant in Amelia’s mind, but lately, it had taken over the lease. It wasn’t a fear of anything specific – not heights or spiders or public speaking. It was a more insidious fear, a fear of not being enough, of not fitting in, of revealing the messy, uncertain self she felt lurking beneath a carefully constructed surface.

    This fear had begun subtly, a hesitant step back from a social invitation, a mumbled excuse to avoid a new experience. But it had grown, tendrils wrapping around her identity, slowly suffocating the parts of herself she once cherished. The witty banter she used to enjoy now felt like a high-wire act, each word a potential misstep. The creative writing she once poured her soul into now sat dormant on her hard drive, a testament to the fear of judgment.

    Her identity, once a vibrant tapestry woven with threads of humor, creativity, and genuine connection, was now fraying at the edges, bleached by the constant anxiety of exposure. Who was Amelia without the fear? She wasn’t sure anymore. The fear had become so ingrained, so familiar, that it felt like a defining characteristic, a strange, unwanted skin she couldn’t shed.

    One afternoon, while wandering through a used bookstore in the West Village, a slim volume with a faded cover caught her eye. It was a collection of essays by an author she’d never heard of, titled “The Courage of Uncertainty.” Something about the title resonated, a tiny crack in the wall of her fear.

    Later that evening, curled up on her couch, she read the author’s words: “The fear of revealing our true selves is often rooted in the misconception that our true selves are inherently flawed and unlovable. But vulnerability is not weakness; it is the birthplace of connection. It is in our imperfections that we find our shared humanity.”

    The words struck a chord deep within her. Could it be that her fear, this oppressive force, was actually preventing her from the very thing she craved: genuine connection? Was she so afraid of being seen for who she truly was that she was missing out on the possibility of being truly accepted?

    The thought was both terrifying and liberating. The idea of shedding the protective layers of her fear felt akin to stepping out into a cold wind, vulnerable and exposed. But the alternative – a life lived in the shadows of her own anxieties – felt even more desolate.

    The next day, a text message popped up on her phone: “Rooftop tonight, still on? We’ve saved you a spot!” It was from Chloe, her most persistent and understanding friend. For a long moment, Amelia’s fingers hovered over the “decline” button, the familiar fear rising in her throat. But then, she remembered the author’s words. Vulnerability…connection…shared humanity.

    Taking a deep breath, her fingers tapped out a reply: “Actually, yes. What time?”

    As she got ready, a nervous flutter danced in her stomach, but it wasn’t the paralyzing grip of fear she was used to. It felt…different. It felt like anticipation, mixed with a healthy dose of trepidation.

    Standing in front of her mirror, she didn’t try to perfect every detail, to create a flawless façade. Instead, she looked at her reflection with a newfound acceptance. This was her, messy edges and all. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

    As she walked out her apartment door and into the vibrant hum of the New York night, the fear hadn’t vanished entirely. It was still there, a quiet whisper in the background. But for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t the loudest voice. Tonight, a flicker of something stronger – a nascent courage born from the acceptance of her imperfect self – was leading the way. And in the heart of a city that never sleeps, Amelia was finally ready to wake up to who she truly was.

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    David E. Kiefermond

  • The Compass, Not the Destination: The Maps We Don’t Use

    The box was from my grandmother. It arrived on my doorstep, a worn cardboard cube held together with fraying twine. Inside, nested in tissue paper that smelled of lavender and old books, I found her journals. They weren’t diaries filled with daily events, but something else entirely. Each one was a map of a different desire she had chased throughout her long life.

    One journal, bound in sun-faded blue linen, was filled with intricate drawings of constellations. The pages were a testament to her lifelong desire to understand the stars, a dream that had stayed with her from her childhood on a farm with a sky full of diamonds to her final days in a city apartment with a sky full of streetlights. Another, wrapped in soft, green leather, was a collection of recipes for plants and herbs—a cartography of her desire to heal, to mend, to nurture.

    I realized then that we are all cartographers of our own desires. We spend our lives drawing maps of the things we want—a new job, a deeper connection, a moment of peace. We fill our minds with these intricate, beautiful plans, tracing the routes we believe will lead us to a better life. We obsess over the detours and the shortcuts, the mountain passes and the winding rivers.

    But my grandmother’s journals held a different kind of wisdom. As I read through them, I saw that many of her maps were incomplete. The constellation charts had gaps, the recipes were missing ingredients, and the routes were often left unfinished. She hadn’t reached every destination. She hadn’t become a famous astronomer or a revered herbalist. Life, as it always does, had intervened.

    At first, this struck me as a tragedy. What’s the point of a map you never use? But as I thought about it, I saw that the value wasn’t in the arrival, but in the journey of drawing the map itself. The desire to reach the stars had led her to countless nights spent on a cold field, watching the heavens. The desire to heal had led her to a quiet life tending her garden, to the smell of soil on her hands and the warmth of the sun on her back.

    Her desires, even the unfulfilled ones, weren’t failures. They were the compass that had guided her through her life. The maps, incomplete as they were, had shown her where to look, how to feel, and who to be. The unreached destinations were not voids but beautiful, open possibilities that had shaped the person she became.

    We are so often taught to measure our lives by what we accomplish, to judge our maps by whether we’ve reached the final destination. But what if the point is simply to have the desire? What if the joy lies in the act of drawing the map, in the hope and the yearning that fill our lives with purpose?

    The greatest desires are not the ones we fulfill, but the ones that guide us. They are the constellations that hang in our personal sky, the compass that points us in the direction of our true selves. So go ahead. Draw a map of your wildest dreams. Don’t worry about whether you’ll ever get there. Just enjoy the view from wherever you are.

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    David E. Kiefermond

  • Echoes of Florence: The Art of Acceptance

    The terracotta rooftops of Florence glowed under the soft Tuscan sun, stretching out like a warm, ochre blanket towards the Arno River. I stood on my small balcony overlooking a quiet side street, the scent of blooming jasmine and freshly baked bread drifting on the gentle breeze, and felt a familiar twinge: the subtle ache of solitude that seemed to settle over me like the golden dust motes dancing in the air. Another quiet afternoon planned with the soundtrack of church bells and the murmur of Italian conversations I couldn’t fully grasp. The photos from friends back home, laughing over familiar meals, felt like faded postcards from a world that understood me more, a world buzzing with inside jokes I no longer shared.

    It’s easy to feel a quiet isolation in a city as steeped in history and overflowing with couples holding hands. Surrounded by breathtaking beauty, yet feeling like an observer, a ghost wandering through ancient streets filled with life that isn’t quite your own. The glow of my phone screen, meant to keep me connected, often feels like a fragile barrier against the vibrant reality unfolding outside my window. Today, that feeling was particularly poignant.

    Down below, the timeless rhythm of Florence was playing out. The insistent buzz of a Vespa zipping over the cobblestones, the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer from a hidden workshop, the melodic chatter of locals animatedly discussing their day – a centuries-old symphony of Florentine life. Usually, this symphony was a charming backdrop, a constant hum that painted the atmosphere. But today, it resonated with a different meaning.

    I closed my eyes, focusing on the individual sounds. The rapid whir of the Vespa wasn’t just an engine; it was someone rushing to meet a friend for coffee, a student heading to class, a delivery driver carrying the taste of Italy to a waiting customer. Each clang of the hammer, though perhaps repetitive, was the sound of craftsmanship, of creating something tangible, a continuation of the artistic spirit that permeates this city. And the Italian conversations, even unintelligible in their specifics, spoke of human interaction, of shared stories and laughter echoing through the narrow streets.

    Suddenly, the loneliness didn’t feel quite so absolute. It was as if the city itself was a living, breathing artwork, its many sounds the collective breath of its inhabitants, past and present. Each individual note, each seemingly ordinary sound, contributed to a larger, timeless masterpiece. And in that masterpiece, I, too, had a presence, even if it was just as a quiet observer on a sun-drenched balcony.

    The old woman who always tends her window box overflowing with geraniums across the street – she was there, a vibrant splash of color and a silent testament to the enduring human connection with nature. The group of students sketching in the Piazza della Signoria, their heads bent in concentration, capturing the beauty around them – they were part of a lineage of artists who have found inspiration in this very place. Even the stray cat I often saw napping in a patch of sunlight near the Duomo, a sleek shadow weaving through the throngs of tourists – it was a fellow resident, sharing this ancient landscape, this fleeting moment.

    It struck me then: we are never alone, even when we feel the most lonely. The feeling of isolation can be a shadow cast by unfamiliarity, a temporary disconnect in a place where the rhythm of life is different from our own. We are surrounded by the echoes of human connection, the enduring spirit of a community that has thrived for centuries.

    I opened my eyes and looked out at Florence again. The terracotta glow no longer felt distant, but inviting. The sounds weren’t just noise; they were a reminder of the constant activity, the constant presence of life that defined this city. And I realized that even in my quietude, I was a part of this timeless tapestry, connected by the ancient stones beneath my feet, the art that filled the air, and the echo of Vespas in the cobblestones.

    So, the next time loneliness whispers in your ear amidst the beauty of Florence, take a moment to listen to the ancient heart of the city. Look closely at the seemingly ordinary moments. You might just find the subtle, persistent hum of connection that reminds you, even in this foreign embrace, that you are never truly alone.

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    David E. Kiefermond

  • The Unpacked Self: Accepting the Song

    The last box was taped shut, the finality of the sound echoing in the empty apartment. Maya stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by a mountain of her life packed into cardboard. She was moving, not just to a new place, but to a new version of herself. She was leaving behind the musician she’d always wanted to be—the one who wrote raw, emotionally charged songs—for the marketing analyst she was, the one who created clean, predictable spreadsheets for corporate clients. She’d told herself it was the practical choice, the responsible choice. But the truth was, she was running from the parts of herself that felt too loud, too messy, too much.

    For years, Maya had been fighting a war inside herself. The musician, she called her “Maya Prime,” was a whirlwind of emotion, a woman who heard the world in vibrant, clashing harmonies. Maya, the analyst, was “Maya 2.0,” a meticulous perfectionist who saw the world in neat data sets and muted figures. Maya 2.0 had built a good life, a stable life. But every night, Maya Prime would emerge in her dreams, playing melodies with a wild abandon that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

    She tried to suppress Maya Prime. She’d sold her old guitar and packed away her songbooks, filling her apartment with minimalist furniture. But as she stood in the silence, a profound sense of loss washed over her. The life she had built felt sterile, a beautiful prison she had constructed to keep her truest self locked away. The move was supposed to be a fresh start, but it was just a new address for the same old fight.

    She walked into the spare room, which was to be her new home office. In the corner, a single, forgotten box sat. It wasn’t full of books or clothes; it was filled with old guitar strings, some rusted and tangled, others still full of the memory of music. And at the bottom, she found a half-finished notebook, its pages filled with the fierce, passionate lyrics of her younger self’s imagination. As she flipped through the pages, she saw them again—the songs that were too emotional, too raw, too real for her coworkers. She saw the work of Maya Prime.

    A single tear rolled down her cheek, but it wasn’t a tear of sadness. It was a tear of recognition. She wasn’t looking at a past she had to abandon, but a part of herself she had to accept. She had spent so long trying to fix what she saw as flaws—the intensity, the passion, the emotional chaos—that she had never seen it as her greatest strength.

    She took out a pen and, for the first time, didn’t try to write a perfect phrase or a coherent chorus. Instead, she let her hand move freely, writing a line with a wild, untamable energy. It wasn’t a perfect lyric, but it was alive. In that moment, Maya stopped fighting. She didn’t have to choose between Maya Prime and Maya 2.0. They were both her. The meticulous analyst could create the space for the wild musician to exist. The stability of one could be the foundation for the passion of the other.

    She looked at the lyric, a line that was both precise and chaotic, both controlled and free. She had finally accepted the best version of herself, not as a goal to be reached, but as a person she already was, waiting to be seen. She didn’t need to move to a new apartment to be a new person. She just needed to accept herself as she was, not as she thought she should be.

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    David E. Kiefermond

  • The Last Watchmaker of Meridian: The Unbroken Song

    Elias, the last watchmaker in the sprawling city of Meridian, was a man out of time. His small shop was an anachronism, a sanctuary of ticking gears and coiled springs in a world that had moved on to silent, digital precision. He spent his days hunched over a workbench, his magnifying loupe an extension of his eye, repairing heirlooms that carried more memories than monetary value.

    One blustery afternoon, a young woman with a striking shock of bright blue hair entered the shop. She didn’t carry a watch. Instead, she held a small, intricate music box—the kind that played a single, sweet melody when opened.

    “It’s broken,” she said, her voice barely a whisper over the chime of the bell above the door. “My great-grandmother gave it to me. It used to play a song, but now it’s just… silent.”

    Elias took the box. It was a masterpiece of miniature engineering, a tiny brass cylinder with an impossibly delicate comb of steel teeth. He saw immediately that one of the teeth was missing, a single, critical note lost to time.

    “I don’t have the part for this,” he said, shaking his head. “They don’t make these anymore.”

    The girl’s shoulders slumped. She looked at the box with a deep sadness that Elias understood all too well. It was the sorrow of a lost connection, a broken link in the chain of memory. He looked at the girl’s face, a mix of hope and resignation, and found himself making a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

    “Let me see what I can do,” he said.

    That night, Elias stayed up late, poring over old schematics and books on ancient metallurgy. He couldn’t simply replace the missing tooth; he had to forge a new one, a perfect, infinitesimal replica. He melted down a tiny piece of an old pocket watch case, carefully hammered the molten metal into a razor-thin sliver, and began the meticulous, painstaking work of filing it into shape. Hours blurred into a single moment of focused intensity. He felt a connection to the long-dead craftsman who had first built the music box, a silent conversation across centuries.

    By the time the sun rose, the new tooth was complete. It was a flawless, mirror-like sliver of brass, barely visible to the naked eye. He installed it with the steady hand of a surgeon, his breath held tight in his chest. When he finally closed the lid and opened it again, a single, clear note rang out, followed by another, and another, until the entire melody filled the small shop, a fragile, beautiful sound that had been silenced for years.

    The next day, the girl returned. Elias didn’t need to tell her it was fixed; the moment she opened the box, her face lit up, and tears welled in her eyes as the melody played once more.

    “You fixed it,” she said, her voice full of awe. “How did you do it?”

    Elias just smiled. “Some things,” he said, gesturing to the music box, “are worth the time it takes to make them whole again.” He had brought a piece of the past back to life, and in doing so, had found a new reason for his own existence. He wasn’t just a watchmaker; he was a keeper of memories, a restorer of lost songs, and a reminder that even in a world of digital shortcuts, some things still need the steady hand of a craftsman.

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    David E. Kiefermond

  • Echoes Through Time: David and the Future’s Whisper

    In the quiet solitude of his dusty attic in Jersey City, a young aspiring writer named David stumbled upon a peculiar wooden box. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, intricately carved with symbols that seemed to shift and shimmer in the dim light, reminiscent of the ancient glyphs Dr. Aris Thorne might have studied on her “Aionian Tablets”—symbols that spoke of deeper, underlying structures of reality, of “The Loom,” “The Axiom,” and “The Stillness.”

    David, like his friend Leo, knew the crushing weight of starting over. He remembered the feeling of crying on Broadway by himself, not sure where his new life would lead, questioning if any of it was worth it. He’d pushed himself through two, sometimes three, jobs just to meet ends meet. But eventually, everything had worked out, and he, along with Leo, had found their footing, building a life and a community in the vast, bewildering city. Yet, a part of him still wrestled with self-doubt, the grind of creative struggle, and the fear of being misunderstood in a world that often seemed too busy to listen.

    Inside the box, nestled amongst yellowed parchment and faded photographs that included snapshots of a younger, determined Leo, lay a single, leather-bound journal. The journal was old, its pages brittle with age, but the handwriting within was surprisingly clear and familiar. As David began to read, a chill ran down his spine. The entries, dated years into the future, were undeniably his own, yet filled with wisdom and experiences he had yet to encounter. It was a chronicle of his life, a roadmap laid out by his older self, a personal “Ancora Protocol” for navigating the chaos of existence.

    Initially, David was skeptical, dismissing it as a strange prank or a vivid dream. But as the journal’s predictions began to unfold with unsettling accuracy—a chance encounter with a renowned editor (who, coincidentally, had once published a piece by Leo about the resilience of Jersey City’s immigrant communities), a sudden burst of inspiration for a new novel that drew heavily from the struggles of city life David observed, a personal setback that tested his resolve much like his own initial Broadway despair—he couldn’t deny the truth. This was a gift, a lifeline from his future self, a gentle nudge from the “Loom” of his own becoming.

    The journal didn’t offer direct solutions or answers, but rather subtle guidance, nudges in the right direction, and cryptic warnings. It spoke of perseverance through rejections, echoing his own relentless work ethic across multiple jobs. It emphasized the importance of embracing failure as a stepping stone, a lesson he himself had learned alongside Leo. It spoke of the profound joy of finding his voice, even when the world seemed blind to the depths of others, a theme that his older self, in a particularly poignant entry, reflected on as a hard-won peace.

    One entry, in particular, resonated deeply: “The greatest stories are not those you invent, but those you discover within yourself. They are the echoes of the ‘Axiom’ of your being, shaped by the ‘Loom’ of your choices, and tempered by the ‘Stillness’ of acceptance.” This wisdom came at a time when David was struggling to find a compelling narrative, and it shifted his perspective entirely. He began to draw from his own life, his triumphs and failures, his hopes and fears, weaving them into a tapestry of relatable human experience, much like the untold stories he imagined others like him had lived.

    Years passed, and David, now a celebrated author, often returned to the old journal. Its pages, once a mysterious guide, now served as a comforting reminder of his journey, a testament to the quiet strength and unwavering belief of his older self, a self who had clearly learned much from the resilience woven into the very fabric of his community and the city around him. He knew that the challenges he faced, and the successes he achieved, were not solely his own, but a collaborative effort across time, a whisper of wisdom from the future, guiding him every step of the way, just as the city itself, with its hidden depths and quiet triumphs, had guided those who came before him. And sometimes, in the quiet of his own creative process, he’d find himself penning a cryptic note, a piece of advice, a future whisper, to the younger David yet to come, a small echo of the “Ancora Protocol” continuing through generations.

    David E. Kiefermond's avatar

    David E. Kiefermond