I started writing this a long time ago, but every time, well…………I changed course and chose something different. But I feel especially compelled as of late.
I get a lot of questions about the things I write. Specifically, whether they are personal (surely they seem personal). And the answer (well, the answer is why I always start to write this and never finish) is yes and no. It’s all personal, every line, vowel and rhyme. It’s all personal, but that doesn’t mean that it’s about me. I write. I gather. I listen. One man’s rant is my story. I’ve been accused of caring too much, which is why I want to know the stories (every story, every start, every ending). It’s what I do. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to and I don’t want to. Stories define us, and stories make us immortal. As long as one remembers our name, we live.
I give myself to the story, for even if it isn’t mine, it is. We belong to each other and my story is hardly more than ten thousand others weaved into one – a good one. Maybe that’s the gift of storytelling, to manage in such a way that nothing is left behind – but so that no one needs know who the story was about (it was about all of us). I can watch something on TV and have it affect me so deeply that words can’t touch it. Or should I say, they can’t at the moment? They will; eventually, they will. Eventually every story becomes a part of this one.
Do I have a story? Absolutely. It’s woven into a myriad of others and there is mystery yet (even to me). Do I share my story with everyone? Certainly not; if you wish to know, just ask but be prepared to leave feeling you know less, but more – so much more. I am a cloth of flaws, mistakes, scars and sorrow. Had I never known pain, I would have no way for measuring joy, laughter, and an understanding of the things I feel matter.
♥ Who I am has nothing to do with where I am.
♥ The worst thing to happen to me is quite possibly the best thing
to happen to me.
♥ Love is never ever wasted.
♥ The heart holds far more than a pint or two of blood.
♥ We never end.
♥ Light trumps darkness every time.
♥ I don’t have to hold something to keep it.
♥ That which is given away is rarely missed.
♥ Nestled within every lost soul is a single desire to be loved.
♥ We are not limited by what we can do, but by what we will do.
♥ We can never say “I love you” too much.
♥ The first person I kissed isn’t nearly as important
as will be the last.
At the root of my story is every story. I am merely here to string words into something a lot of people can relate to (a familiar unfamiliar). If you find your own within my words, I hope you aren’t surprised.
and here they sit
a long night without mother
a ring upon the table
stirs a sigh
another time –
and how I loved (so much)
the pull of something
than who am I