I’m Ashley, self-made scribe and nomadic wanderer through Neverland. I’ve been spinning tales ever since I first laid hands on a dollhouse. Over time I tossed aside the Ken doll for encyclopedias and grew into my own Katniss of homegrown journalism, shooting arrows dipped in sleep deprivation at targets made of paper. I’ve spent most of my life in a galactic stupor, lounging on the neon ends of imagination’s plump cumuli like a sloth in the branches of a bubbilicious banana tree. I was my own fat cherub chilling in the exosphere, head in the sky, soul in the stars, every story sanctioned by an audience of silver-lined clouds. I was hooked by the gravity of ephemera, gripped by the revelry of gourmet happenings, addicted to taking the risk that life might be gorgeous behind the world’s nightmarish grimace and it’s more Renaissance than revolt. Smiles outnumber shadows and small talk might someday touch shoulders with psychic ascension–it could be true, all of it. One kiss of fantasy and it could be fluttering in your palm like a butterfly.
I loved fairy tales like a foodie loves tacos, and it morphed into a hobby that blossomed in my teens.
During my daydream-drenched free time I worked on the compilation of over a dozen chronicles of poetry. Late-night brainstorming sessions revealed worlds of dizzying white, pages ripe with poetry that glittered like snowy mountain peaks; one sip of syntax and I’d be skylarking through ecstasy. I’d spend hours reveling in Dickinson and her delicious dashes, in Muir and his naturopathic knowing, pouring most of my adolescent life into the pursuit of English and its exotic powers of passion and persuasion. This blog is the atlas of epics, emerging from eons of time spent deep in thought, all the way from my early teens to today’s wild twenties. Though my time is now tethered to more tangible worlds, moonlit strolls through the labyrinth of language still remains my preferred method of travel.