Dear Men…

I continue to get men who wish to interact with me, or “Get to know me.” If I send them away or ignore them, they say I’m a bitch. I’m really not, but I am tired and I’m all used up for this game of online ‘dating.’ So, here is my new, blanket response to anyone asking to chat.

I will also add, you might very well be a lost soul mate. I have been looking my entire adult life for this elusive creature, and so far, come up empty handed and empty hearted. I’ve found two possible candidates, both of which I gave all of my time and energy too. I put my entire self into getting to know them. One was utterly unavailable, and the other is a sociopathic narcissist. I couldn’t very well give myself to him, and in the process of that discovery, I decided I was done giving myself to anyone, and that means the time it takes for you to get to know me, or me you.

You might be an incredible man and you might be the one I was looking for, but sadly, I am no longer looking. I no longer believe in love the way I used to, and I think I’m too tired and too used up to try again. I’m sorry if it is you who arrived just a bit too late. My party is over.

For you younger men, I am 50. I know I don’t look it, but I am. Younger is not daunting to me, the last one I wore out was 13 years younger than me, but yeah, I’m 50!

To you older men, I’m not looking for a companionship type of relationship. I have that in the man I still call my best friend. If anything were going to sway me in a man’s direction, it would be the promise of an entirely passionate and torrid love affair, in real time, and not as a mistress or side-girl.

So yeah, there you have it. Nothing else to see here, move along people. But, for those who are determined, here is my form letter response to any new inquiry. Have at it. Just leave me out of the time-consuming equation until you have something to bring to the table apart from the mundane and normal. I am anything but vanilla!


*Yes, this is a bit of a ‘form letter.’ I really don’t want to be rude or dismissive, and I realize you might not detest social media quite the same way I do. You might thoroughly enjoy getting to know someone via messenger or chat, or comments on pins. I don’t. I used to, but I’m all used up in that department.

I am a writer and author, and for years, I spent many hours a day promoting myself via social media. I chatted with hundreds of people, and because some of my content is erotica, it somehow gives men a feeling of freedom to knock on my social media door. They think my openness about myself means I want to spend time talking to them and being provocative for their pleasure. And, I am attractive, so they all think I want attention for my looks, which I don’t.

I can’t take one more, “How are you? Tell me about yourself,” message. I hate talking about myself. I am the opposite of a narcissist, and honestly, I get bored with the blather of most and I include myself in that blather. I’m sorry, everyone seems about the same to me. I think that’s because I’ve literally heard it all.

Of course, at this point, you will say I’m a bitch. Perhaps I am, but I’m my own bitch and I don’t like wasting my time on anything ordinary and mundane. My life is full of the mundane, I want passionate and real and honest, or I don’t want anything.

And the newsflash of the moment is simply, I love being alone!!!

I will say, A few men have managed to find a way into my heart, and I am happy to chat with them on a regular basis. They said some magic combination of words that caught my interest and made them memorable to me. Whatever it was they originally said as an ice-breaker, made them individuals who stood apart from the crowd of normal men. I won’t tell you the magic combination of words, apart from, it was nothing to do with, “How are you? Tell me about yourself.”

I carried on a cyber-only relationship with a man for two years. I was monogamous with just him during that time, both in real time and cyber time. I know what it takes to have that kind of relationship, and I am unwilling to participate in that kind of thing again.

My new goal is for organic, authentic relationships in real time. I think it’s the hypothetical of cyber-land that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

So, if you are getting this pre-written response to an inquiry to get to know me, here is a list of all my social media platforms. My BLOG is the real me and my real thoughts on wherever my life might be in that moment, and it goes back years and years.

My webpage, is chalk full of posts about me, my books, my poetry, and my life. There is also a menu with links to all my other pages and social platforms.

My Pinterest boards go back over 5 years of collecting pins about everything I love and how I think, plus quite a few boards full of my poetry, prose, and quotes.

And I have two FACEBOOK pages. My PERSONAL PAGE and my AUTHOR PAGE. Those I try and keep current, along with the attached pages I keep for my horse, and my other pets which honestly are my, “kids,” and you should follow those pages if you want to see what I’m doing on a daily basis, at least from behind the lens.

I’ve written one memoir, which is non-fiction and truly me down to my core. You can find it here: PEEING WITH THE DOOR OPEN; Not a love story.

I’ve done the work for you. Feel free to stalk me all you want. I’ve always attempted utter transparency in what I write, and post on my pages. It’s not always pretty, but it’s always me in that moment. Get to know me that way, and then come back and send me a message that gets my attention enough so I remember you. You’ll know you succeeded if I give you a direct email to reach me. Good luck! ❤

Thank you for your interest.
Payne Hawthorne

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The Important Things

The Important Things

I’m so tired. It’s just living that wears me out. Living without what I consider the important things. Stuff like honesty, soul searching and sharing our inner truths. Things like intimacy, love, true passion; not just the need to scratch an itch or satisfy a primal instinct to procreate. Fulfillment through the tactile and the transfer of energies when we truly harmonize between bodies.

Deep, meaningful, honest communication is on the endangered list. It’s not that some aren’t willing, it’s that there is nothing deep going on to talk about. Shallow, superficial, insincere, artificial and pre-programmed blabber is all we have developed and encouraged, so it’s all most are capable of offering. I find it all quite boring, and my interest wanes within seconds.

We offer attention to many with the constant chats, texts, pics and quotes. None of it means anything, and honestly, it’s just a distraction from our misery. It’s not true attention or love offered to someone else, it’s just us, scratching that itch. It’s us wanting attention, but not truly caring about another. It’s calling our need, love, but it’s just need, and needy and more than anything, I find it another energy drain. I find it the opposite of what I crave, and the antithesis of what I consider the important things.

By my age I see all the facades and fake smiles for what they truly are. We are all praised for the insignificant and productivity, as if anything we do now, will matter once we are dead. We worship the exteriors until that is all anyone presents. There is nothing past the skin, and the mask we paint on for the world to view.

We are with the wrong people, and then use hypothetical and cyber relationships to make ourselves feel better, when all the while, we are being frauds in our real lives. Staying with people who aren’t enough, or are so mentally ill they should be in lock up, but we make excuses for them, and continue to reward the wrong minutia.

Our jar should be full of boulders of love and transparent intimacy, but instead it’s full of a million grains of petty triviality. We are shut down, depressed frauds with little to zero true fulfillment in our lives. Our sex drives are miniscule and our bodies numb from it all being wrong.

Most of us aren’t gender confused, and we don’t question our sexuality, but we are all in the closet nevertheless. We deny ourselves until all the desire vanishes, then we feel better because we are tired, numb, preoccupied with all that minutia, and exhausted from surviving in the wrong life with the wrong people, in the wrong place. We suffer and are proud that we can still carry on, and nobody knows how tortured we really feel.

We are all on the brink of tears, but we bite our lower lips and wait for validation that productivity and denial of one’s true self is the way to present. We never share our inner truths and we are never real, raw or vulnerable. We are all too abused by the mentally ill to allow the facades to drop long enough to make a heart connection. The previous traumas at the hands of the many, are not what we wish to revisit.

So, we close it all off and even before we are dead, we are dust and ashes. Our lights are out and our flames extinguished. Our souls don’t shine. When, all the while, what we needed, was only to open our hearts and our souls to the possibility we aren’t trapped in a matrix created for the fakes and frauds. We needed to focus on different, “Important Things.”

Payne Hawthorne


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Ramblings of an old, mad woman…

Just an FYI, everything I’ve posted here, and pretty much everything I write, I automatically post in this album on Pinterest: Behind my Mirror

The ramblings of an old woman, maybe mad, (as in crazy), maybe not, who really cares if I am?

I can have a perfectly fine day. I can laugh and appear joyful, and I can produce a poem or prose that makes me appear as if I am wallowing in chin deep depression. Most of the time, I’m okay, not depressed, or am I? It’s not like it matters if I am. I’m doing my work, I’m keeping all my clients happy, I’m up early and I’m getting shit done. I dance when nobody is watching, because I love my music, but I’m not necessarily, happy. Maybe this is just normal and middle ground, and I must learn how to be okay in this land of merely adequate.

If all you read was my poetry and prose, you’d think I was suicidal, which I am not, but that said, I’m also not that enthused at living. I’m calling it circumstantial depression, and the circumstances happen to be, life! It’s hard, it’s boring, it’s just a lot of work. I am always barely making it, and always scrambling to make enough to survive. I hate adequate and I hate simply surviving. I ache to thrive!

Yes, I can certainly look at the half-full, and I do. I work at living in the positive, but that said, half-full, or half-empty, it’s still half, and half is barely adequate. I always wish for better, or more, or just someone to share all that I’ve worked to become. Being alone is tuff for me. I used to love it, but now I’ve evolved, and I want somebody. It’s just that simple. I’ve worked on myself, and I have a ton to share, and a well of untapped love.


So, the sad poetry, the heartbreak prose, all of that is how I keep myself clear, and clean on the inside. It’s how I spend my time thinking, and unfortunately, I write better when I’m struggling and fighting depression. I’m alone 99% of my life. I rarely interact with anyone apart from my animals. All I have is myself, and my thoughts, and I tend to think about poetry and prose as I go about doing all these mundane, menial tasks that fill my life.

In the middle of the day, I will run to my computer, and spend half an hour, and I can crank out a fairly decent poem. It’s often sorrowful and comes across as depressed. I can read my loneliness in my words too, but in a strange way, the words keep me company. What happens is, I tap into a pocket of sad, and I write it down. After that, it’s gone from inside me and I am not wallowing.

I had a friend tell me I was in a vacuum because I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I don’t think I am. Not with how much I regurgitate from my soul. Not with how much I post my poems and show my ugly. Not with the self-reflection of reading it back, over and over.

But that said, aren’t we all in a bit of a vacuum inside our own minds? How many of you pour it out, for all to see? The good, the bad, and yes, sometimes the very ugly. Is it better to get a million different opinions and responses and let the views of others, and therapists, alter your course? I don’t think that’s good either. I’ve navigated through all of my bullshit life, all by myself. Yes, I’ve had some help from a couple close friends, but not many, and never with someone who loved me as their one and only. I don’t have a one and only, I only have myself, and I’ve learned how to make myself okay.

I often wonder when I’ll stop writing about, him, and yes, I had a message from someone that said I wouldn’t get him back with all the depressing and angry poetry. I’ll just say it here, I don’t want him back, at least not as he is right now. It was me who sent him packing because I couldn’t allow him to treat me the way he was, and I’ve held fast. Either he changes and tries to be a better man, or he doesn’t get me, and I feel what I have to offer is incentive enough. I’m that rare, once in a lifetime female, and he was given a great opportunity when I fell for him, but he passed on the personal growth needed, so he passed on me.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not heartbroken and it doesn’t mean I don’t still miss him constantly! It also doesn’t mean that I don’t need and outlet for all this hurt, so I continue writing about my heartache and the greatest loss of my life. He was my first true love. I’ve never loved the way I loved him, and even though he didn’t feel the same, it doesn’t diminish what I felt and still struggle with on a daily basis. It’s been months, and so far, the words continue to bubble. It helps me remember him. It helps me continue loving him. It keeps him alive in my heart, because after all, he was the greatest love of my life. I must use these emotions for my art, or else I feel they are a waste.

I’d kill for him to feel half for me, what I do for him. I wish someone loved me, like I do him. I wish someone couldn’t get over me, like I can’t him. I wrote an entire book about him and us, just so I could keep him alive inside my heart. My poetry is always about him. I guess it doesn’t matter he cares nothing for me. I always thought I couldn’t love someone who didn’t love me, but I was wrong on that count, because I still fucking adore that asshole. I can only sigh.

I know most of you don’t understand why I still love him. I really should hate him for what he’s put me through, but I also know, he’s just being himself, and narcissistic personality disorder or not, mental illness or not, he can’t help himself. All I can do is protect myself and take care of myself, hence why I am not with him. But I still love him, and feeling that kind of love for someone else is a wonderful thing. Yes, I’d probably get through my heartache faster if I hated him, but hate is cancerous, and I can’t allow it.


What I allow, will continue. That is the only power I have over what happens in my life. My power lies in how I respond, and what I allow to continue. It’s basic, but it’s difficult for most to grasp.

Love heals everything and all wounds! That much I know, and if my love doesn’t heal him, so what? It’s healing me, and making me a better person. So yeah, I keep writing about him, because I still love him, and instead of burying all this crappy heartache, I’m experiencing it as it hits me. Sometimes in waves of anguish, sometimes in anger, and most of the time, in love.

Am I insane? Crazy? Delusional? I don’t expect him to read what I write. I know he doesn’t, and he doesn’t care about me at all. I’m not in delusion about that shit. I don’t write it for him, I write it for me. I’m not writing to try and change him, or anybody. I know I can’t change another soul, I can only change myself. If he’d wanted me enough and loved me enough, I believe he would have sought the change within himself so he could have kept me in his life. It wasn’t like I didn’t spell it out clear as day; how he was hurting me, what I needed, and that I loved him so much I was willing to change everything about my life. He obviously didn’t want me enough to look at himself.


I’ve always written for myself, and for the most part, nobody reads me. My audience is minuscule. It’s my therapy. It’s my friend. It’s how I love and stay upright. It’s how I stay alive and yes, my words reveal the inner me, but I’m not suicidal, I’m just aware that my life is merely adequate, and I tend to beat against the adequate. I want more, I want the whole package, I want it all.

Isn’t that okay though? Aren’t poets and writers supposed be a bit off? Aren’t those of us who put it into words, supposed to question the norm and the program, and all the fucking bullshit when everyone else says, “This is the way it is, live with it, deal with it.”
I say this isn’t enough. This life isn’t enough. Being alone isn’t half enough.

Hopefully, this is what makes us poets and writers interesting enough to read.

*There is an entire album of my poetry on Pinterest. if you start at the bottom, and scroll up, you can see my evolution and where I’m struggling and failing, or hopefully making headway. BEHIND MY MIRROR

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Another Fucking Year


(This was written on Christmas Eve, 2016)

There is something about the holidays I find depressing. I know I’m not alone and many feel the same. It’s a stark reminder of yet another year passing. It’s cold, and I’m still alone, and after the year I’ve had, I know I’ll still be alone when the next season rolls around.

Last year, in this same house, I wrote a short story about finally being claimed by the man I’d loved. We’d had as intimate of a relationship as is possible, without ever touching. In our modern age of technology, carrying on an online-only relationship is truly possible. It’s about really good communication, and we had that in spades. Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough of everything else for me to continue waiting. Two years was long enough, and I craved real, and real intimacy.

So, last year I wrote that story as my fantasy that he’d finally show up, (we’d separated in 2015), and warm me from the inside, (That short erotic piece is on my website at .”The Claiming”). It of course didn’t happen. That kind of shit never happens. Like I said, it was a fantasy, and I’m fully aware of the difference between my reality and the fiction I write about. I guess I’m thinking about it since I’m in the same house, and it’s bitterly cold, and I just built a fire in the wood stove. All little reminders of what I was feeling last year, when I was alone.

This season was supposed to be different. I was supposed to be with my new love. The one I met back in February. Although our affair was torrid, it was short lived; much too short for me, but he’s still young and where the cyber-boyfriend and I had excellent communication, me and young-new-BF, had none. The thing with him was he only lived a few hours from me and he was that real intimacy I’d been craving.

If only he’d had the communication skills the cyber-BF had, if only. This seems to be the story of my life. I find pieces and parts in different men, but none are the whole package. Along the way, I’d accumulated a few miles and years on my soul, and I’d been learning and acquiring the parts I needed to be a complete person.


The intimacy with new-BF was amazing. I’d gone seven years without being touched. I was ravenous. Actually, I still am. I’ve always had an immense sex drive, but I’ve never been privileged enough to dwell with someone who matched me. New-BF matched me in that department better than I could have ever imagined. I guess that longing I feel now is simply a chemical thing, something my body craves. Once again, denial certainly makes one want it more. I hate that paradox.

Not having a real home is another contributing factor in my depression. I have a place where my stuff lives, but I am rarely there. I miss my dog, and my cats, and my bed, but my house/pet sitting business is thriving, so I am never there. I feel like a gypsy, and often it takes me long minutes in the mornings to know where I am. It’s the opposite of grounding. I think it’s why I often feel like a satellite, orbiting around everyone else’s lives, only watching, only serving, never really there, never really belonging.

I thought having my own person, someone who loved me as much as I did them, would solve that problem. I guess I’ll never know. You see, the thing with new-BF is that it turns out he was my, ‘One,’ the soul mate I’d been waiting for. I can only contribute our demise to really bad timing. Timing is a bitch, and even though I thought he was mature enough to handle me, turns out I was once again, wrong. I’m wrong a lot. It gets tiring sometimes, although humbling.

So, as I sit here, wondering how I’ll make it through the night, and tomorrow. I’m missing him more than I could have ever imagined. I’m wishing I weren’t so sensitive and that his indifference and immaturity hadn’t wounded me to the point of me rejecting him. Wishing he hadn’t turned it all back on me so now I doubt my own sanity. Wishing I didn’t cry so easily. I never used to cry at all, and now? Now I cry daily. It’s driving me crazy to be this sensitive.

New-old-never-to-be-again-BF, is only five minutes away from where I sit in my puddle of tears. He’s visiting family this weekend. I can feel him. Oh yeah, I have that fucking, empathy gift, thanks mom, not really a gift. He’s right here, and yet a million years away. I can’t access him. I can’t touch him. I don’t get to have him in my life. Once again, I find my inner turmoil one of those fucking paradoxes I distain. Ain’t that life though? Nothing but one fucking contradiction after another.

So it’s another holiday season. Another cold winter. Another numb year for me. I can’t imagine anyone could steal my heart. I can’t imagine giving myself to anyone else, ever again. Next holidays I will be fifty. I think I must come to grips that this is it for me, and as much as my lifelong dream of finding my soul mate kept me going, I’m forced to find a new reason. One has yet to materialize, but I’ll slog through the tears and count another day down at the end of it.


EPILOGE: I sat down and started writing our story. It’s more of a memoir told from my point of view. It poured from me during this last week between the holiday weekends. It was, if nothing else, a great cleansing for my heart. I already had a raft of poems and prose I’d written during and after the affair, and those will be in the book, along with correspondence. Keep an eye out in early 2017 for my first non-fictional novel:

PEEING WTTH THE DOOR OPEN, Not a love story. A memoir by, Payne Hawthorne




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My Truth


It’s strange how a lifetime of first thoughts can change. It took a few months, but I no longer wake up and wonder, “Will today be the day I meet, him?” Him being the man I was created for. All my life, since my earliest memories, I had this knowing I was meant for someone else.

I don’t feel as if I need completion or as if I am a partial without him, but I do have this knowing I could be so much more, with him. I could be extraordinary instead of utterly average. I also know I am perfectly capable of loving someone who isn’t my soul mate, and in return I am completely worthy of being loved. I don’t have any of those normal complexes. Apart from my aging exterior, I have very little self-doubt, and I think I’m a pretty cool girl. I like myself just fine.

None of that has anything to do with my desire to be seen or found by, him. I don’t set my self-worth on that kind of scale. Sadly, all I really want is to be loved and understood. I want harmony and agreement with a person I can call my own. Oh, also mind blowing sex, but that’s not the important thing here. I’ve even made contact with one other I could feel at an emotional level. I spent two years in a cyber only relationship with a man I knew was a soul mate. Even in knowing that, I couldn’t be with him, and I want it all, not just pieces and parts I find in different men. I want the whole package, heart, mind, soul, body; all or nothing. I am better off alone, than grasping at something unattainable.

Then last February, I met a man. A much younger man than myself, but the instant knowing knocked me over. He was him, in the flesh, there in person. My heart settled. My mind cleared. The static evaporated and I was instantly, so much more than I had been just moments previous, and I could feel him empathically. The narcotic of my choice is this kind of soul connection, and it was instant on my part.

In our beginnings, I felt extraordinary! I felt divine and everything made sense. All the previous—why didn’t that work out?—became clear. It was him I’d been waiting for. His desire became my fuel and I wanted to live like I’ve never really felt before.


We tried, and I briefly thrived. None of the in-between is very important, but it became clear I wasn’t his, her. I never considered it wouldn’t go both ways with how intensely I felt. I wanted to be his, her, and I tried everything I could to tell him and show him how I felt.

When I was hurting, I told him. That in itself was me showing how much I loved him, how much I cared, and how much I wanted this to work out. The old me would have stuffed and shrugged it off, and eventually I’d have grown cold and apathetic towards him. That was how I’d operated all the years before and with all my past relationships. That was why, before him, I never felt the kind of pain that comes from a truly broken heart.

This time I was doing it differently. I was going to show him all my soft spots, all my little bruises, and I was going to communicate all my need. I wasn’t going to be cold and self-contained. I wasn’t going to bury any of it, or fake my way through anything. I felt real, and I wanted this thing with him to be real. I was refusing to drown in two inches of water. I was investing time and love and every cent I made to prove how much I loved him.

you-never-saw-theNone of that worked in my favor and now he is not in my life. I guess I was too real, but I don’t have an answer for what my alternative might have been. I have to be real. I have to value my own worth, even if nobody else does. I don’t have much worth left to value and I really am a nobody in this world. All I wanted was to be a somebody to him.

So now I wake up every morning with a different thought, and it sounds dire and suicidal, even though I am anything but. I know what suicidal feels like, and trust me, I am not. Yes, I am depressed. Yes, I am alone and flailing in a life I don’t want to live. I don’t have much of a reason or incentive to even try that hard, and I am feeling about the opposite of extraordinary.

My first waking thoughts have now morphed. I no longer wonder when, he, might appear. Instead, “I wonder if today is the day I will get to die?” I’m all too aware of how easy it is die, and I always think; “Maybe today is that day. I can only hope.” I don’t have a death wish, but I am not that invested in being alive, and I believe there is a big difference.

I hear a lot of talk about living in and speaking our truth, even if it makes others uncomfortable, or they end up rejecting you in the process. That’s what happened with me, but I don’t see a substitute for being desperately honest. I refuse to live in denial. I did that for the first half of my life, and I ended up suicidal. Now though, even though this will make many feel they must give me a reason to want to live, I don’t see it that way. What is a good reason to live? Others who depend on you? What about you? Honestly, the second I am permitted to move past this existence, I want too. I want to let go of whatever it is holding me here; whatever tests I haven’t passed, I need to pass them so I can go. I simply do not fit here. There are none of my kind.

I know we loose things and people in life, and life goes on. New puppies make us grit our teeth, kittens romp, miracle foals are born and new friends appear. I’ve even learned I can write many different stories and produce entire books. I know how to speak horse, and I can help a prey animal find balance and sanity in a world full of predators. I have an odd skill set and my resume is one of the strangest you’ll ever read.

I have a mile long gratitude list and I am thankful for everything and everyone in my life. I’ve learned to adore every moment I am permitted to do what I love, (be with my horses and write), but that doesn’t make me want to stay here. It makes me okay in my moment and it gets me through a day, but my first thoughts are not candy coated. The next day always looms and I must survive through it.

On the far off chance there is another, him, out there? I don’t have the energy to crawl out of my cave to be seen or found. And if the current, him, didn’t come and drag me out by my hair? Then the odds of a, new him, finding me, are well, you can do that math. I can’t really trust my heart ever again. I was patched up when I started, and now I’m held together with sticks and glue. my-heart-is-brittle-my

I’m already feeling defensive about this blog, which will make me publish it, but I know most will miss my point and misinterpret this entire essay. It’s why I write, period. To make others think past their stale perceptions. Some thank me for putting words to the intangible desperation they feel. Others just see through different filters and will chastise me for my lack of enthusiasm at being alive.

All I’m doing is, voicing the hollowness of my existence. The lack of meaning and the devaluing others inflict upon me. I try and put all that into words, and maybe someday that will help someone else not feel so alone, but in this moment, I am, and since I am a writer and a poet, it is my duty to at least try and put it in words.


This is me being real. That is my honest truth. I am voicing my pain and wish to escape. I am not looking for solace, or a reason, or any comforting words. I am not suicidal, I am just being honest. This is my truth.

~Payne Hawthorne





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The Rightness in, being wrong.


You were, are, will always be right about me. All of it, every call you made, most would agree with you on every count. They’d take your side and say I was indeed the crazy one.

I’m owning it. Yes, my life is ‘non-traditional’. Yes, I look at life through delusional colored lenses. Yes, I am crazy. I’m not insane, but I am battier than a fruitcake, or something like that.

I’m a tortured poet for one thing, us creative types are often given a pass, but then, I also believe in angels who benevolently guide and help me on my soul’s journey through lives. In a different time, I’d be locked away in a padded cell for speaking of such stuff. So yeah, you are the majority. You get the win on this one.

But here is the crux of it. You’re too ‘normal’. You believe this program. You’re a blue pill person. I thought you were different, one of my kind, but I was so wrong. See, there again, you win through default.

I’ve never once, my entire life, wanted to be normal, or fit in. I’ve never been the popular one, and if by chance I happen to be among many and we agree, I figure I’m probably doing something wrong. I’m a freak, and I love being so different you can never draw lines around who I am.


Honestly, I can’t imagine anyone able or willing to keep up, or understand, or be anywhere near where I am on this obscure little path. I don’t want to follow the rules of this matrix. Or the ethics of this society. I personally think everyone else is completely off their rockers, and unbalanced in all aspects of their lives. Working like ants toward nothing but death. Glorifying busy, and romancing fatigue like a lover. So busy following the rules and doctrine, they never think for themselves, or evolve. None are honest, or real, or close to authentic.

I am 100% authentically me, no apologies and no shame. I choose to dwell in my NOW, and I pick love.  If that is crazy, then so be it!

So, you go ahead with your rightness and stay on that wide highway. I’m perfectly fine over here on my narrow trail, following my bliss and my heart and finding peace in being wrong.


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My Forty-Ninth Year




“I’m so much more than the skin I wear around my soul.” ~Payne Hawthorne

What a year so far. In April 2017 I will turn fifty. It’s a milestone I’m unsure I want to check off on my calendar, but l know full well the future will claim me even if I don’t want it too. What a strange ride to where I am now. Lost one identity, found a new one along the way. Lost and reacquired my body, which I hadn’t known I’d left until a handsome young man gave it back to me. Thank you, Joshua, I will forever be grateful to you for showing me I was still a sexual entity.

It started bittersweet when a two-year relationship ended in October 2015. It was only a joining of hearts and minds, not bodies, but he gave me back my soul, which once again, I didn’t realize I’d lost. Then there was Joshua, the most unexpected birthday surprise of my life. He walked into my life shortly before my forty-ninth birthday in April 2016. As I watched us, I knew we would super-nova out much too fast. We burned bright immediately and I regained not only my body, but some of my youth. I will forever cry through that smile he gave me.

Then in June, I was gifted a horse in my life. One I could call my own, and she gave me a foal, a filly that I immediately knew was the superhorse I’d always hoped to find. Once again I had my own horses and I could raise the filly, Caru, with only my input, backed up by my twenty-five plus years of knowledge. No baggage to lug with us from previous lives and owners. I was given back my horsey girl identity, and she is happily thriving once again.

I’m working much too hard at earning enough to live and keep my horses, so the writing and authoress stuff has taken a far backseat, but that was the other identity I cultivated during my six years of solitude without a person I could call my own, or the horses. All I had was myself and all I could do was write. Those characters were not only my friends and lovers, but also my rehabilitation as I rediscovered who I was meant to be. Through the writing, I cultivated my emotional intelligence and dragged myself out of suicidal depression.

I miss Joshua right now, but my life is full enough for someone about to turn fifty. I am strong and healthy and my mental, emotional and physical fitness is balanced. It’s a great feeling to regain and amalgamate my old identity with my new one as Payne. I am a much more complex person too. Although I spend over ninety percent of my time alone, and I rarely interact with others, I have the horses, and they are my church and my balance so I guess it’s working.

I’ve learned that change isn’t so bad if it’s addition and growth.

I still dream about having my own person, but I realize now it’s all fantasy and will never come true. I find it an impossibility that someone would love me more than all the other minutia of life. I’ve never been the one picked and put first. Recently I was called delusional because I still wished for and felt I was worthy of that kind of love. There is a soon to follow journal post on this exact subject, but I’ve discovered I am fine if it never happens. I obviously don’t need intimacy to survive because I’ve lived the majority of my life celibate, with only short bursts of connections. It is a want and only that.

I am now mature enough to differentiate between the physical and the emotional, and to know that often, they do not intersect.

My crave is and will always be for the emotional, mental and physical to magically interconnect between me and a worthy male. My directive is to make the relationship, our love of each other, and our personal growth, the most important things.

I want to be more important than their egos and their rightness. I want to be more important than the rules and ethics and yes, even their perceived map of how it should be. I want to be more important than the stuff, the land, the ownership and the acquisitions. I want to be more important than the bills that need to get paid or how we struggle to survive. I do realize this is all fantasy and fiction, and not how this matrix works, but a girl needs a dream to survive.

This girl has and will always keep those things as her focus. It’s a raging storm out there in the world, and I seek refuge in the eye. I seek peace, harmony, love, passion and most of all balance in all aspects of my life. To share that with another would be the unimaginable for me. The end of the rainbow or the winning ticket.

But I digress. My forty-ninth year was a big one. I broke my seven-year tenure of celibacy with the most epic connection imaginable with the most immense young man I could have never dreamt up. He was a gift I will forever cherish. Even though we couldn’t make it work, he is my last love. I can’t reinvest again and hope to hold onto my sanity. The self-doubt and self-loathing is much too great to bear.

I’m good though, I feel resuscitated and as if I can go on. I think I finally let go of finding and being found by my soul-mate. It’s a good feeling to let that one go. No more waiting, no more searching, no more hoping. It’s a good release. Enter reality horsey girl. Enjoy what you have. Be thankful for the two friends who care about you, and rejoice in having been brought back to life.

It’s raining outside, which I find ironic since the last time I sat here and cried my eyes out it was mimicking me in the same fashion. I know the tears are good and how my heart clears itself. And guess what, here I am writing again. I have a bunch of self-therapy I need to get out, so the blogs will be forthcoming as they spill from my head through my fingers.

The writing, more than anything else in my life is how I heal myself. I must tell someone so I can get it out of my head. I don’t necessarily need a response; I just need to get it out so I can see it for myself. I’ve always published everything I write, and for now, that isn’t going to change.


Posted in emotions, Faith, feelings, introspection, Personal, Reflections, Soul Searching, Spirituality, The Journey | Leave a comment