Speed of thoughts

Hi folks.

Did you ever ask yourself how fast our thoughts are? It’s an interesting question. I asked Leo and he said that it’s probably a little bit slower than the speed of light. And I can partly agree.

Sometimes our thoughts are slow, without any need to move away, no matter how much we want them to disappear. Forever. I felt how slow they can be last November when I couldn’t take it anymore and I totally broke down. Because you know what is more dangerous and a way more painful than falling from the highest mountain. It’s loving someone who doesn’t love you back.


I never knew the pain of heartbreaks before, I didn’t quite believed in them. I believed that I don’t need anyone at all, I thought that I’ll just walk away from this sorrowful thoughts in my head, like they’re nothing, like they don’t seem…

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Silly rocking chair chant


The OWU campus student union

has eight rocking chairs. Someday,

when Hendrix is bigger we shall

have to take a picture of me,

Nana, with all 7 grandies.

Until then, we take many

“Flashlight hikes,”

exploring college campus.

I let them shout for joy,

here in this photo.

We never have been

told to leave the premises.

Here’s a silly poem,

ditty or chant.

It goes loosely

to the tune of

“Rock around the Clock.”

(Thanks to “Happy Days” reruns

nearly everyone knows this tune.)


🎶 “Rock around the campus” 🎶

by Robin O. Cochran

“One o’clock, two o’clock. . .

it is nearly ten o’clock!

Rock around the campus,

Rock all night long,

Rock all day strong,

Rock and roll music streaming

from open college dorm windows.

Ten o’clock, eleven o’clock. . .

we can go past midnight!

Rock all night till

the morning’s light,

Rock all eve

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Kari’s Reckoning

Myths of the Mirror

She abandoned the view and walked, arm outstretched, slender fingertips leaving invisible ribbons where they glided across the smooth surface.

The unseamed gray of the floor, the cool walls, and flat ceiling held no memories of those who’d trod the halls before. They demanded no care, no cleaning, no mending, or maintenance. How long would the alien cities last unchanged, impervious to the passage of time? Another three hundred years? A millennium? Lives came and went, washing from the tiers’ petals like rainwater to the porous, wet world below. Was her life within these walls any more important, other than being hers?

Perhaps, only a world of wrinkles and grooves could capture the fragmented stories of wounded souls, hold them tight in the ashes and rubble. One required pitted stone and cracked wood, ragged bark and churned soil to heal a heart’s broken flesh. Her lover and daughter lived in…

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