Finding Hope in Despair

At Borderless, Candice Louisa Daquin reviews a book with a different view of treating cancer.


Book review by Candice Louisa Daquin

Title: The First Cell and the Human Costs of Pursuing Cancer to the last

Author: Azra Raza

Unless you are an oncologist, what would possess you to read a book on cancer?

Azra Raza’s unexpectedly well written book gives you the only reason you’ll need. Because it’s necessary.

Why? We go through life without thinking of death very much. Maybe this is a good thing. However, all of us shall die. And many of us shall develop or die of cancer. Whilst we may not wish to think about this during life, that she tells us is precisely why the progression of cancer treatment has been stymied. It’s not the only reason of course. There is more money in treatment than cures. But as long as we are all too busy to read on these subjects, we can be assured nothing will change and…

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Reflecting the Madness and Chaos Within

At Borderless, Candice Louisa Daquin writes of art, writing, mental illness and a new anthology from Indie Blu(e).


Over 150 Authors and Artists from five continents, wrote on mental illness. Candice Louisa Daquin, a psychotherapist and writer and editor, tells us why this is important for healing

A watercolor of King Lear and the Fool from Act III, Scene ii. Courtesy: Creative Commons

When Indie Blu(e) put feelers out about creating an anthology based on mental illness, the passionate reception galvanized our belief it was a necessary subject. However, a few expressed concerns that an anthology about mental illness, would be ‘depressing’ and they wondered ‘who would want to read about mental illness?’ It is this perspective, acting like a fog, that separates those inflicted with mental illness from those who are not.

Such responses exacerbate feelings of isolation, unworthiness, and loneliness that many with mental illness already have. Through The Looking Glass, a metaphor from Alice in Wonderland, evokes this common feeling of separation, as…

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New girl

TheFeatheredSleep – Young, but seeing much


A broken bottle

a discarded hairbrush

totems within totems

effigies of past and present

a light knock on the door

she’s wearing a French halter dress

her ankles are slim like my mother’s

she’s not my mother

her skin is brown like my mother’s

she’s not my mother

her black hair is curled like my mother’s

she’s not my mother

her perfume speaks of wanting passion

it belies the faux expression on her face

attempting trickery

she bends to me and pretends to be enchanted

by childhood photos

they are not her photos to touch

with her careful, manicured pink nails

a color my mother always hated

she had more style in her little finger

the one with dupuytren’s contracture

more a question mark than deformity

it didn’t stop her playing the piano

carving her place in my father’s heart

and this imposter? Flicking her way into our life


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TheFeatheredSleep – Life and learning


I have little family but I have an aunt. My aunt reminded me today of the prayer of St. Francis. To give to others what you most need. She is not a Christian but she said it’s an apropos relative to karma and that awareness kills karma, once you learn the reason for something, it has no power over you.

Years ago I would not have imagined my aunt, whom I was close with as a child but did not see as a young adult, would be such a guiding force in my life. She told me people come into our lives, even those who damage us, as much because we ask them to, as they want to. That doesn’t mean if you are victimized, that you ‘asked for it‘ (you didn’t) but you play a part. Not meaning you are responsible, but you…

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Bloom on the Inside

TaraCaribou – To be known, or not

Raw Earth Ink

My bark, dry
Soaks the tears
A blotter for future days
You’ll never know
Just what you do to me
My response
I remain internal
Showing my hand
Was a mistake I won’t repeat

My roots, searching
Stretch out
Spreading and hungry
Always needing more
You don’t know me
The real me
I remain buried
Dark rich soil covering
All my inner parts

My limbs, shriveled
Seek light
Growth truncated
Yet I lift
I rise, incremental
On the surface
You see what I let you see
Underneath it all
The whole me
Is mine alone
Tearing me up by my roots
Is the only way

Destroy me
To know me

tara caribou | ©2021

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Return To The Labyrinth

Janmaloque – Decisions and Respect

Strange Goings On In The Shed

blende12 at Pixabay

Today is the first day I’ve managed to find the enthusiasm to write, perhaps enthusiasm is a little strong! It’s hot and sunny outside and there’s three days of our holiday left before returning to work. I’m sitting in the kitchen, which is my makeshift ‘office’ whilst working from home. One wonders how long this state of affairs will last, there’s daily news of redundancies. Existence is precarious, especially so for those who are struggling and can’t fall any further. I consider myself lucky to have a roof over my head, having a job, being able to eat and pay my bills. As for good health, still waiting on an appointment for an MRI regarding the lack of hearing. At least I can hear and able to get out of bed in the morning. I know, not much to complain about.

As for being to access the…

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The Old Country

Janmalique – Encounter in a small room

Strange Goings On In The Shed

RandyDMM at Pixabay

Once again I’m standing in the garden gazing at a beautiful sunset, thankful to be reminded that there is much beauty in the world. To be honest I’m finding it difficult to write coherently and succinctly. It feels like I’m bleeding words and feverishly looking for something to staunch the flow. The Lady of the Flame smiles in the darkness, urging me to continue. She commands “let the flow continue, it will heal you.” As you command my Lady.

I can feel her presence in the depths of my brain, waiting in the place between wakefulness and sleep. She cautions me to be wary of who and what I align myself to, and not to be open to manipulation. The Lady of the Flame is quite unambiguous in her message regarding being entrapped by worldly illusions, my insecurities and that of others. May the gods save me…

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The nadir of naught

TheFeatheredSleep – A different kind of darkness


It’s very difficult to write

when you are depressed

when you know depression

isn’t fleeting

isn’t because something happened

but the same as

a piece of string

will get affixed to tree limbs sometimes

and despite all effort

not be able to get



I envy (you’re not supposed to envy, but I do)

those without this malady

the world would call them stronger

they may blush slightly and say

aw shucks it’s a lottery isn’t it?

I could be just as glum as you if

my dog died, if my car broke down

and in those instances I want

so much to say


that’s not it

at all

it’s crying on your wedding day

from pain not joy

it’s feeling strong at a funeral because

the wires in your head don’t fire right

it’s understanding you’re going to have to try ten times harder

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