The Roommate

Who Is It That Lives With You? Brookstone, Colorado. Picturesque. Beautiful. The Rockies; a gorgeous lake. Winter skiing. It's an idyllic place to live, until someone begins murdering people, brutally. Who would do this kind of thing, and could it by my neighbor, that strange man who lives by himself two houses down? Could it be the janitor at work, or this man walking towards me on the street, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets? Who is it, that lives here amongst us? The twists and turns that life can take: after serving in the war then working homicide in Dallas, Terence Mosi ends up in his hometown assigned to the case. All around Terence are the ghosts of his past: his childhood, the people he killed during the war, the friends he lost in the war, an old high school buddy. What does it take to go crazy? Terence wrestles with his own psyche, trying to control his "post-traumatic stress disorder" PTSD, and wonders if he should get out of this line of work. But what else would he do, and who would stop this killer? Some things happen, and they change you, and never leave you. What do you see when you explore the personalities of those that you know, including yourself? Loose thresholds, shattered spirits, unmoored identities, poor foundations, tenuous holds on reality and sanity. A descent into the ravages which warp minds, and an exploration of the deep longing for love, safety, and belonging which resides in us all, "The Roommate" will forever change the way you see those with whom you live, including yourself.
About the Author: I write because of the fragility of our existence. I write because it's my answer to impermanence. I write because it helps me stay connected to my heart. I write because we're all different, and so much the same. I write because the world needs more tenderness. I write because I'm tired of secrets. I write because it's my path to redemption. I write because I've forsaken those that I love. I write because I want to know myself. I write because I want to know you. I write because I'm drawn towards things I shouldn't do. I write because every flower is meant to bloom. I write because life is full of paradoxes. I write because I've had to leave friends behind. I write because it's my form of prayer. I write because, when I write, I lose track of time. I write because I've walked dark streets looking for love. I write because of the way the sublime slips away from words. I write because of the twice shy part of once burned. I write because it helps me learn. I write because there are plenty of people who have written, famous well-published people, literary figures, literary giants, and I didn't like what they wrote. I write because I'm always telling myself stories anyhow. I write because I don't know all of the reasons I write. I write for you. I write. I write. I write.