on writing

I am a person who is interested in stories. Storytelling, story sounds, story boards, stories told to grand children before death, stories told to newborns on quieted lips, stories told, and stories not told yet.

What a story means to me is the ability to see a world I am not part of. My world is small, orderly, beautiful and tragic, as I assume all life stories can be. But mine is familiar, I’ve lived it, written sonnets regarding living it out loud, I’ve told my stories, they are out there now in the world. Living. They are not bad stories, but they are known too well to me now.

What I want are stories of triumph, of exquisite joy, the kind that bursts through lips and hits ears full on like symphonic boom. I want stories of lives; stories of deaths; stories of the mess in between that we live for and what we expire at the hands of. I want to tell stories to forget my own. And lost in the fog of those unseeing characters, a chance to breath in the life I don’t live; the tales I don’t spin; the warnings I don’t heed and the beauty I cannot touch.

Imagining stories is what keeps me going. Let’s me begin anew each day. Let’s freedom become a resolute possibility in a land so fraught with boredom and the mundane it cannot see its own way to the dawn. But it is there, the start of a new tale; the first words of a new classic; the very first line of a life story about to be told.

I am the vessel, I am the writer, I am the conduit only. With no foresight in mind, and no ending in sight, I write, I write, I write.