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Aisling Weaver is that sky-eyed girl who danced with gypsies and fireflies. She painted wings on a warhorse and called him Pegasus; she wove weeds into crowns and made little girls into fairy princesses. Not Wendy but Peter, she climbed trees, rescued kittens in distress and let fly arrows and stones at any who trespassed on her secret hideaway. She dreamed of being an artist and creating the world of her imagination.
Becoming a woman she grew too fast for her small hometown. She wrote stories of young girls falling in love with golden Gods and dark, troubled boys. Her heroines rode horses, startled cougars in the mountains and lost their virginities on white sheets while their parents entertained guests on perfectly trimmed lawns. Aisling’s friends, cousins and sisters were her fans and clamored for every new tale. Soon, though, she wished to live bigger than she could in a place where her parents grew up and everyone knew everyone’s name.
Aisling left. Before long her mother recorded her locations with the ethereal, fading permanence of graphite, cursing the ancestor that fell in love with a gypsy and sowed a wanderer’s soul into her child. She burned the passing chapters of her life in remembrance, marked her own forehead in ash and moved on, determined to live the next to the fullest. She fell in love, broke her own heart and another’s. She ran off the cliff’s edge of life over and over, refusing to look first.
Aisling has earned and learned many a lesson.
Chasing knowledge, life, and love, Aisling has lived up and down the interior of the Eastern United States. She can read your tarot cards but won’t, will sail any month of the year, hasn’t walked a mile in your shoes but has lived her own life barefoot. She writes by the seat of her pants following the strings of her heart.