A Symphony of Instinct

The music bounces down the marble hallways of the school, latching onto corners that amplify the tones in just the right way. I’m not sure where the music is coming from, but … No, that’s not right. I know exactly where it’s coming from.

When I step through the doorway, the classroom has disappeared. Bits and pieces of the old room remain, but very few recognizable elements. Our student desks? Gone. The whiteboard and Teacher’s desk? Gone. His podium has become a conductor’s stand on which he taps his baton as my classmates and I crowd the back or side or front (can’t really tell) of the room.

“Take your places, my dear musicians,” he says, straightening his blue tuxedo coat and tails over a smart purple button-down shirt. Suddenly, we’re all wearing tuxedos. Mine is that shade of pink that reminds me of the sweet cotton candy that melts on my tongue. In my hands, a sleek mahogany wood violin and matching bow.

“I can’t play the violin,” the words sneak out and just as quickly fade. I feel an urge to run the bow over the strings, then suddenly the instrument has taken on a life of its own.

As I learn what I can do with this new passion of mine, my classmates seem to be discovering their own hidden talents.

Clyde, sitting a few seats away from me, is straddling a cello, rowing his body along with the bow, feeling the music in every bit of his being.

Hope, one seat behind me, a flute to her lips, is kissing the smooth, silvery metal. Her music sounds like a bird rising with the sun in the morning.

As I melt into my music, I forget everyone else around me. Teacher is directing us with music I can’t read, but what flows from my violin is coming instinctively. I don’t need years of training or sheet music. I just need to feel myself fall into what my soul wants to say.

Then Teacher directs us to stop. The spotlight, working from some magical place above and to the right of us, focuses on Irreverent Student sitting at the black beauty on the stage just below Teacher. The gentle tickling of the ivory piano keys echoes the majestic symphony the rest of the orchestra had performed. It serves as a haunting memory until Teacher brings us together for the triumphant conclusion of our symphony, complete with a resounding blast from the percussion section.

Teacher sweeps his arms around the room and an invisible audience roars its approval. He bows and steps to a microphone.

“Thank you, thank you. My most gracious thanks goes to my very talented orchestra.”

The audience whoops and hollers like fans at a rodeo.

“I will venture to guess these young musicians had no clue they could do this today,” he says.

More applause overshadows the confusion I know my classmates share with me. I’ll bet they also didn’t know they could do this.

Teacher continues basking in the glory. “I knew they had it in them; we all do. We all have unexpected treasures lying within our souls. The key is to let our instincts take control.”

The crowd I can’t see showers the orchestra pit and Teacher’s stage with long-stemmed red roses. One at a time and all at once. Then one spectacular red beauty flies into my lap.

I glance toward Teacher, who happens to be looking my way at the exact moment the rose lands. He smiles and bows his head as if he’s known this all along. Then his voice sneaks into my head:

“The secret to life is letting your instincts guide your soul. You will never be led astray. Accept that and live the wonder of possibility.”

Until our next adventure, dear friends, I remain ever-faithful

The Dragonfly’s Student

My Confession

It has taken me a while to get to this moment. I guess I was afraid of.judgment. I’m no longer afraid.

Hello, my readers. I am Mari Locklin and I know things because I remember.

I started writing this blog after a dragonfly flew into my life almost two years ago. Since then I’ve learned a lot — about the world, about the world beyond, about the world within.  At the time, I was starting to awaken to the unknown influences in my life, the synchronicities, the messages in the random music I would get, in the meditations that would open my world to new experiences and new places to make my inner me stronger.

Everything changed one night when I ran out of a dream and into my bathroom. The guide with whom I’d been speaking for two years was backing off. He said this was the way it was supposed to go. I knew that. I knew it had been a decision by my Higher Self, but my guide and I weren’t happy. He didn’t hang me out to dry, though. He stuck around for a while until I felt comfortable with the next phase of my life. I never felt alone. That guide had been with me since childhood. I had called him Nikolas since the day I met him when he pulled me back from a shattered sliding glass door.

I thought I would miss him when he left.

Then, just about this time last year (mid-October, 2012), a Google search for an element in the novel I was revising led me to another blogger’s page. When I searched for Twin Souls and Twin Flames, ChannelingErik.com popped up. I followed the link to the blog put together by a mother who was communicating with her son, existing now in the afterlife.

I couldn’t stop reading. Erik’s story ripped at my soul and his vibrant personality kept me reading.

I never recognized when it happened, but my guide disappeared from my life. Suddenly, the voice throbbing through me, giving me boundless energy to write and to spread his word, was Erik. At first I thought it was just my fascination with this 20-year-old and the lessons his mom was sharing with readers through a channel named Jamie Butler. I loved the interviews he lined up with famous people like JFK and Elvis and even Jesus (that was an amazing one!)

One morning, during meditation, I found the tousle-haired spirit who I know as Erik sitting under a Royal Poinciana tree (what is known to my Cuban family as a Flamboyant) in the meditation space in my mind. We talked for a short while. I asked him if he was Erik. He said he was who I thought he was. I asked for proof: “Give me a purple flower today to prove I’m talking to you,” I ordered.

Later that day, a coworker handed me a gift – a purple mug with a purple flower painted inside. Along the outside, one simple phrase in script: It is what it is.

Okay, maybe my new guide is this kid who pranks his fans! Everything started falling into place and I started sharing with my readers new lessons from my teacher. Vibrant lessons; random lessons, all with a spiritual connection. He obviously wants to help us all grow and join him in the afterlife after our lives are done when our time comes (definitely not before!) I was so happy knowing this; I’d finally found a community of people I felt at home with.

Then an armed man walked into an elementary school in Connecticut.

That night I had a vision. Somewhere in that place between awake and asleep, I saw a pristine white room with white metal folding chairs scattered around. The next moment there were students sitting in the chairs. Waiting.

Then I fell through the space from awake into asleep.

Were those souls waiting for me? Was I supposed to help? I’m a teacher and I communicate really well with children. I felt strongly that was the case. It wasn’t a memory. It wasn’t wishful thinking. I know they called out the troops in Heaven to help that day, as they did on other days of big disasters. It was a feeling stronger than anything I’ve felt before. I’m not assuming I was one of the troops (although it sure would be nice to think I helped that night!) When I was a kid I had a dream where I was helping people cross a dangerous road. Maybe this life is just my path toward that goal.

Now I walk through my days with a lighter step because there is something different about me.

I know how this will sound to people who know me outside of this blog. Trust me, I’ve kept this story secret for a while fearing that my friends or my father would think I was going crazy.

I’m ready to confess now. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m not going crazy, and I’m not working for evil — I love God and Jesus and Mary and the angels. I’m also not indoctrinating people. In this blog I’m writing a story. It can be taken as fiction or as reality – parts of it can be interpreted either way. I only want people to be entertained by my stories. That’s all a writer really wants.

I don’t know what happened that night of the shootings at Sandy Hook elementary after I fell asleep. I rarely dream anymore. I’m told it’s because I can hear them so clearly now. They don’t need to communicate via my dreams. They communicate via Erik and this blog as I follow the map that will lead me down the path of my lifeplan.  I am far from reaching the finish line, trust me!

I hope Teacher’s lessons ring true to my readers. If you want to learn more about his alter-ego of Erik Medhus, visit his mom’s blog at www.channelingerik.com or buy her book, My Son and The Afterlife, https://www.goodreads.com/book/photo/17571845-my-son-and-the-afterlife

This experience continues to open my eyes and lead me closer into the light of spiritual awakening, a glorious journey that has changed the way I see my life in so many wonderful ways.

As I continue my travels, Nikolas is back, and when he rests a hand on my shoulder, I smile.

Thank you for joining me on this ride.

Namaste, my friends. Until Teacher’s next lesson I remain, ever faithfully,

The Dragonfly’s Student

Change is a Marvelous Thing

“Change is not scary,” we hear as Teacher flies into the classroom. The lone dragonfly buzzes over each of us before hovering in mid-air over the stage at the front of the room.

This is always my favorite part of being his student, watching his transformation. Something like a brisk wind wraps him in its vortex and a small tornado swirls ever so briefly before it pulls back to reveal the man — taller than most men I’ve ever seen. Today, he’s dressed very casually in blue jeans and a gray T-shirt with a purple lightning bolt emblazoned on the chest. On his head he wears a simple baseball cap. Purple, of course.

“Good morning, dear students. I hope you’re ready for a workout today,” he says, fists on hips, chin jutting out in proud defiance.

“Workout? What the –”

All eyes turn to the complainant, awake and alert in his seat at the back of the class. Irreverent Student’s grumble is interrupted by what sounds like a baby wailing.

When all eyes return to the front of the room, the complaints end. Sitting at Teacher’s desk, tugging on a purple pacifier on a brilliant blue cord attached to his purple Barney the Dinosaur T-shirt, the source of that ear-piercing screech locks his piercing eyes with mine.

The recognition is instantaneous. Only then do I realize our teacher is missing.

“Teacher?” In a daze I approach the babe, who is growing in front of my eyes. “What happened?”

In response, Teacher, who is now a rugrat, yanks a purple lollipop from his mouth and releases a string of incomprehensible words through lips turned blue by the dyed sugar.

“What the … heck?” Irreverent Student repeats his comment and edits it for this younger audience. “This is our teacher? What’s this lesson supposed to be?”

“No clue,” Clyde shrugs. He turns toward me and Hope, kneeling in front of the now five-year-old Teacher.

“I am still the being you know as Teacher,” the child releases a string of words similar in intonation to the ones he had released as a toddler, except now we can understand. “There will come a time when you will be asked to change. To transform.”

As he grows into a seven-year-old Little League baseball player, he walks around the room, tossing a baseball into the air and catching it with a weathered leather glove a few sizes too big.

“You will have the memories of the being you were before, but you will feel different. Your vibrations will be different. You will move at a faster speed that the rest of reality.” He throws the ball toward the whiteboard then runs at a speed almost as fast as light to catch the ball as it bounces off the board. “Kind of like a kid with ADHD!”

The pre-pubescent Teacher stands on top of the desk. “Are you with me now, class?”

I don’t get it.

He jumps through the air and lands on the floor just past the steps to his stage. Turning, he gauges how close he came to killing himself (as if he could.) “Cool!” Teacher says to no one in particular before running up to me. Then, his face in mine, “What cha talking ’bout, Writer?”

“Well, you’re being so random today,” I say. “I mean, more than usual.”

He laughs, his hot, bubble-gum breath fogging my glasses before he finally steps out of my personal space. Then, as he climbs the steps back up to the stage, every step becomes a year so that, by the time he’s at his desk, our teacher looks like one of us. Teacher spreads his arms as if they are wings. Amazingly, they don’t change.

“So how about that for a massive transformation,” Teacher laughs.

“What’s the lesson today, Teach?”

“You are not conscious of the changes your body goes through as you grow from an embryo, which I wasn’t going to show you!” He pulls the stool from behind his lectern and sits, hooking his feet on the rungs on either side. “Life is defined by change, and yet many are frightened of the thought. Do you not realize what you’ve already gone through?”

Hope starts to raise her hand in a question, but Teacher is on a roll.

“There are so many more changes waiting for you around the corner of your development, dear Students. You, too, are growing through a vortex of transformation, but you are unaware because your change goes so slowly in order to allow you time to accept things. What would happen if each of you were to transform as rapidly as I did during today’s class?”

By now, Teacher is back to being the man we know him to be. His strong arms hold a brilliant blue globe at chest level. “This transformation you saw today goes on every second in every corner of your Earth with every living creature that is part of the cycle of life on this beautiful planet.” He walks away from the world, leaving it rotating alone in front of the board.

“Change is scary only because you don’t see it for what it is. It is just creation stepping from one side of the room to the other.” Suddenly, he’s standing next to Irreverent, who jumps at the shock as Teacher pops into the space next to his elbow.

“You, my students, are in this school, in my class, to help you accept the transformation that is going on within you, but you don’t need me. You could do this on your own if you only learned to accept the changes going on within you, within your society.”

Suddenly, he’s back at the front of the room with a pointer, randomly pointing out places around the globe. “Don’t you see the changes already going on around you? The people unsatisfied with the way their governments are ruling? That is change. That is transformation, and that transformation is simply imitating the transformation going on within you.”

With a wave of his hand, the room disappears. We are now in an open field of green grass and purple flowers. In the distance, under a spreading Banyan tree, a bull sits, contemplating the beauty around him like that story from my childhood. But in our immediate area, a carnival is vibrating. Ferris wheels, roller coasters, merry-go-rounds. Barkers calling out their wares, inviting us to play their games. The smells of the party are rich — corn on the cob, cotton candy, candied apples, meat-on-a-stick.

“This is for you, my students. This festival is what awaits you as you continue your slow and steady transformation. Enjoy!”

And, with that, class is over for today, but the joy that surrounds us and vibrates within us will keep us strong as we continue this change he has explained. We know that waiting for us at the end of this extended process is something glorious.

I can’t wait!

Until next time, my friends, I remain, ever faithfully,

The Dragonfly’s Student

Seeing through the clutter

Seeing through the clutter

“There’s a place for all of us. That’s what you always tell us,” I say, pacing the carpet in front of the couch in his office. “Everyone seems to have a place but me. Where do I fit in?”

“Oh, dear writer, you have the most important task of all.”

I want to believe Teacher, I really do, but it feels like he’s feeding me empty lines.

Then he shows me what he means.

He takes me to a mountaintop as the sun sets just past the trees. “You see that?” he says. “Look at how the filter of the tree’s leaves focuses the sunlight. It is just as brilliant as it would be without the filter, but the message is more pointed and easier to see.”

He turns me to face him.

“That is you. You take my lessons and focus them so your readers can learn a little easier. You filter my words so that others will understand.

“That is your purpose. A pretty effin amazing purpose, if you ask me.”

Why Life Is Anything But Mundane!

We’ve had a long line of substitute teachers for what feels like forever, and it’s driving us batty. The last one, the reason we all walked out, threw a list of words on the board and asked us to define them then draw an image that represented each definition. So, NOT post-graduate work!

What finally drove us out was the word mundane, not because of the tediousness of vocabulary words, though. We left because the room became inundated by a school of dragonflies.

The dragonflies flutter around, flitting from one end to the other, from the whiteboard to the window to the door, just random flying, darting one way then the other, never settling down. I hold my hand out to see if one of them will roost at the end of my pencil, but none of them do. I think I recognize teacher’s distinct blue and purple markings, but he won’t stand still long enough to verify and he definitely won’t stand out for my classmates to recognize. He’s just flying around like an ordinary dragonfly.

That is just so wrong – Of course, that did it!

“What is wrong with that?” a voice booms. Teacher’s voice.

“He’s back from the dead,” Irreverent Student mumbles.

In a stage-whisper, Hope leans toward Irreverent, “Shh!” She says, suddenly embarrassed by the option we’d all been considering. “Don’t be rude.”

“What? I’m just saying what we’ve been thinking, you know.” Irreverent stands and tries to find Teacher amongst the crowd. “He’s been gone an awful long time and we have a right to know.”

Then, just as swiftly as the swarm had appeared, the dragonflies stream out of the room through an open window we hadn’t noticed before. I swear it hadn’t been open!

I spy the purple and blue one as he slips through the window, “Come along, class.”

That’s all it takes.

We gather our books and assorted supplies, then head out following our teacher, who waits for us in the clearing on the other side of the school perimeter. He has still not transformed from the dragonfly. We follow him nonetheless. Through the woods to the brook that trickles toward the shoreline and the beach, we trip over the rocks and roots and around the ancient trunks of ever green pines and shedding maples, crunching over the reds and yellows that used to wave from the branches.

Then, on the clean, white, sandy beach, he becomes himself again.

Dressed in long, brilliant blue board shorts, Teacher flips a purple surfboard onto his shoulder. “Ready to catch the next wave?” he says.

“What?” The screech coming from normally quiet and modest Hope triggers a string of “mine” calls from the seagulls dive-bombing for fish just off the shore. “I don’t have a suit, sir.”

“No problem,” Teacher says, wading into the water and setting his board down on the crystal clear water that couldn’t possibly be good for surfing. He straddles the board and turns in toward us. “Let’s begin class.”

My classmates and I exchange lost looks. We should be used to this by now, but Teacher never fails to surprise!

“So how about those vocabulary words. Who got to MUNDANE?” he says.

I did, but it was confusing, so I stopped. I’d always thought mundane just meant boring or ordinary. The definition I ran into today was a little … well, odd. “I did, sir. What I got was pretty weird.”

He motions for me to continue.

“I always thought it meant boring, but today the definition said that mundane is ‘of this earthly world rather than a heavenly or spiritual one.’ That kind of blew my mind.”

He nods vigorously, the sun catching the flecks of gold in his curly, light brown hair. “And what did you think about that?”

“Well, it kinda bothered me. You always tell us that there’s nothing boring about life, that it’s the duality of this existence that gives life its special spark, but this definition is telling us that human life is completely opposite of anything fun or extraordinary.”

“Ding, ding, ding. Correct.”

He pounds a hand onto the board, creating a ripple the crashes on the shore at our feet. It helps me remember where I am; I kick off my shoes, peel off my socks and dig my toes into the firm, cool sand.

“This definition makes it sound like your lives are only a holding room before you get to stroll back Home and enjoy the wonders of Heaven. Wrong.”

His need for a pulpit propels teacher to his feet on the board. His balance is impeccable; I’m nervous, though. I plot out ways to get out of the splash zone if he were to fall.

“Tell me why it’s wrong, Irreverent.”

He needs no prodding. We’d been talking about it before the dragonflies invaded our room today.

“That’s easy, sir. You’ve told us over and over again. This life is an amazing experience for any soul. To want to wait to experience anything until we get to heaven is a waste of a tremendous gift.”

“Exactly,” Teacher says, raising his arms over his head as if preparing for flight. “There’s nothing back Home like the texture and flavor of an ice cream cone or a chocolate fondue or a hearty steak. And there’s definitely nothing like the feel of cool water rushing past you!”

With that, he launches himself into the ocean, coming back for air several yards away.

“This life, and this body, is a gift, no matter how imperfect you believe it to be.” He strides to the shoreline and turns to Hope, “Are you ready for a swim?”

Without warning, he turns Hope into a bottle-nosed dolphin who dives into the ocean and under the waves. “Your spirit animal, dear Hope. Enjoy your freedom!”

He turns to the rest of the class, transforming each of us into the animal that represents our soul. He wraps up the transformations with Irreverent’s Raven and Clyde’s Eagle before turning to me, but I’ve got this. I’ve done this before.

Just as in our private lessons, I raise my arms over my head and take three slow and gentle cleansing breaths before I lower what Teacher has transformed into wings. Then with the power and playfulness of a seagull, I fly into the salty air, higher and higher, the cool air brushing my feathers, until I’m too high to catch a breath and have to dive back toward the waves.

And, as my classmates and I enjoy a day of hooky with our teacher, the man in purple and blue nods and smiles proudly.

Learn from our teacher, dear classmates. Life is too short to be spent observing. Sometimes, it must be enjoyed.

Namaste, my friends.

The Dragonfly’s Student

We Are Not Alone, Part II

With my classmate’s permission, I take his hand in mine. “We will not be going far, dear friend.”

“Why can’t Teacher just tell me what I need to know? I mean, really, do you need to show me? What do I have to see that I can’t do on my own?” His words remind me of the irreverent student he is in the classroom, but his hand remains firmly in mine.

“Teacher cannot tell you because he doesn’t know how to meditate. He doesn’t need to because he’s already in that world we try to reach.”

We approach a park bench in the school’s flower garden and I face him, hovering my free hand over his chest. “May I place my hand on you?”

He nods, suddenly silent.

“Our existence is different from our teacher’s.” My hand settles on his chest, just over where his heart beats. “We live here. We feel here. Our existence is so solid and heavy.”

Under my hand, his heart pounds. “I can feel your heart beating,” I say. He nods. “In the place where Teacher exists away from us, they don’t need to touch to feel what the other feels. All they need is permission, like you’ve given me today.”

My classmate chokes softly on his thoughts before, “How do I tell my friends that it’s okay to be with me? I mean, that’s what I want to do, right?”

“I believe that’s what you want. You believe you are alone in this world, going through the hardships inherent in our existence, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“You aren’t, you know. You not only have those of us in this plane of existence.” I nod to signify I mean myself. “You also have those friends in Teacher’s plane. They walk with you and help you –”

“I don’t feel them,” he interrupts.

“I know. That’s why we’re here.” I hold his hand again and lead him down the graveled path that winds around the gardens. “You don’t need to walk in the gardens to talk to your spirit guides. This is just a good way to start.”

I turn toward him and look into his eyes to get a firm sense of whether he’s ready. He nods, his eyes solidly locked with mine.

“Let’s find a place to sit.” We roam the gardens and finally settle under a large banyan tree that has shed some of its leaves, making a soft bed underneath. We relax within the reds, the oranges, the yellows that were once on its branches and then, “Trust me, okay?” I ask.

He nods.

“Alright, close your eyes and breathe, my friend. Become still, forgetting everything that angers you.”

His breaths start coming slowly.

“Concentrate on your breaths, rhythmically inhaling to the count of three, then releasing each breath slowly.”

“And now imagine. You are going for walk through a forest. The tall evergreen trees rustle around you, as if a breeze is blowing through their branches.

“You’ve found a path, well-worn from the steps of generations that have walked before and yet all around is still pristine. The walkers who came before respected this land where the green trees grow. As you walk in their steps, you feel their existence through your footfalls. Each step takes you closer into the world where these predecessors live now.”

“Your steps guide you deeper into the darkness of the forest, and yet the light from the sun passing overhead is still able to break through the branches. You can catch glimpses of the brilliant indigo blue sky. The sunlight guides you to a clearing where a white light brighter than the sun emanates from a spot in the center.” I take one long breath, letting the image settle. “Do you see the light?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Now you can talk to your friends. Welcome them. Thank them. Ask them for guidance. Ask them for help. Now that you’ve found them, only you can shut the door between you. They love you, dear one. Now I will let you continue your meditation on your own. When you are ready, you only need to walk back out of this forest. I will be waiting for you in the bed of leaves.”

I stay with my classmate for a very long time until he is ready to leave, then I hold him as he sobs with the joy that comes once the realization of an eternal love hits you.

Namaste, dear friends.

Much love,

The Dragonfly’s Student

Irreverent Learns: We Are Not Alone, Part I

“You see, the thing is,” the irreverent student mutters to himself as we wait for teacher’s arrival, “This life thing is hard. I mean, I know there’s a reason for all of this, but why the heck do we have to wade through all this crap?”

I am not usually the one who answers these types of questions. This is the teacher’s venue, and I would only be repeating his words, but my classmate’s restless pacing makes me think he needs this now. “Teacher says this life is graduate school for souls. We choose our classes and our professors, knowing we may need to pull some all-nighters, but expecting to earn a degree after it’s all over.”

“Then, what if I quit now? People have done that, right? I’ll just drop the course.”

“Um, I’m not sure how that works.”

A flash of iridescent blue catches the corner of my eye and I know Teacher has heard my classmate’s distress. In a blink, blue and purple wings unfold to reveal the man we know to be our teacher. He passes by me toward the classmate we know as Irreverent Student.

“The school of life was never meant to be easy for you, my son,” he says, leading him to take a seat on the steps that lead to Teacher’s stage. “The peaks and valleys that require our attention are the things that make this life such a magnificent learning experience.”

“But why do I always feel so alone?”

His sadness creates a lump in my throat that stops my voice. Instead, I sit next to him and place a hand on his. I would wrap my arm around his shoulders, but Teacher is already doing so.

“You are never alone, my son,” Teacher says. “Even when you feel as if you are in a dark pit of despair, you are never alone. You have friends from the other dimension. They hold you when you cry, they lead you when you are lost –”

“Why won’t they talk to me?”

Teacher glances toward me, nodding. It’s my turn.

“They do talk you, my friend. You hear them when you feel a chill or get a sudden urge to take the bike instead of driving to class –”

“You hear my friends?”

“No, I hear my friends. They tell me your friends want you to invite them. They want you to understand that before they can help, you have to call them to you.”

“How do I do that?”

“Talk to them.”

I look to Teacher for advice, but he only nods as if I’m heading in the right direction.

“You need to be alone,” I pause, knowing how contradictory that sounds to what he wants. “Only alone in this world. They will be with you. Just go away from the world you know — no music blaring from your ear-buds, no fake reality playing from the television. What’s best is probably going for a long, quiet walk, in the park is best, but the beach works great, too.”

“How about if I go for a drive? I like going for drives on long, lonely roads.”

“Well, I guess, but no music. No distractions is best. Then tell them what you need. I always say hi first. Kinda like, Hello, my friends.”

Teacher nods in agreement and steps back. “Why don’t you take him through your walks?”

When my classmate agrees, we step through the doors of our classroom into the gloriously beautiful grounds of our school.

(To be continued …)
Much love,

The Dragonfly’s Student