Lately I’ve been busting to break out but something holds me back. The creative volcano keeps building in my heart and I swallow it down. I could be telling stories and singing songs all day and into the night, but I sit in my chair stewing and thinking about it, and then the day and the night go by.
There is a story about a life-changing train ride, and there is a story about climbing a mountain, and there is a story about a puppy who lost her way but found her way home, and there is a story about a woman who found out there was more to her than she realized, and there is a story about a team of ordinary people who happened to have superpowers and managed to save the universe, at first almost by accident but finally on purpose.
All of those stories are waiting to be told, and if I don’t tell them they will never be told. Oh, someone will tell stories like that, but they won’t be the same as my stories — and, dear reader, if you have the urge to tell those stories, now is the time, because no one can tell your stories the way you can, so get on it while you can.
And I will get on with mine, and we’ll see where it all goes.
And what if I promise not to close my eyes Until I come up with something wise That will last throughout the ages? And what if the words refuse to dance Until I’m willing to take a chance To spill my soul onto these pages?
And if I wake before I die I’ll ask that God show me a sky Blazing as angels sing around me. At day’s end all that I can ask Is to once more be up to the task And let not my foolishness confound me.
There! Fourteen lines that might survive As proof that I was once alive.
This dance is like no other we’ve ever shared. I never knew how to dance, so I don’t know how to move my feet, and I only know where to place my hands by watching the others. And then there are the dancers who dance alone while more or less facing their partner, more or less in synch with each other, more or less dancing.
“More or less” — which part is more and which part is less — and how is it “dancing” in the sense of the word? And how did we make words dance, these random sounds that now have meaning?
“Dance!” and we move our bodies to the beat, and how did we find rhythm in the sounds, and why are sounds and rhythms so pleasing? When we break every thing down into its components, how did it all come together in the first place?
“Sing!” and we speak in a different way, painting pictures with the tones our voices spill.
“Write!” and this foreign instrument in my hand starts to waltz across a piece of paper seemingly with a mind of its own, but the words come first to my mind and. Travel down my arm converted into forms that somehow will make sense to another human being — how did this all happen?
But it did happen, and we can reach across a room or a void and share ideas and concepts, and share abstract and solid meaning.
Then why do we manage not to understand each other in the end, and why do I have such base and earnest instincts — if we seek a meeting of the minds, why does it lead to a sharing of the bodies? And why not?
And where am I going with this?
“Never mind him, he’s grasping at straws, trying to fill a page with any old creepy thought that crosses his mind.”
“And why would he do that?”
“He’s off his cork.”
Who is having this conversation? Isn’t it a monologue by definition, emerging as it is from one mind and one voice in the end?
“This is silly. I won’t share this passage.”
“How do you know it’s silly? Perhaps it’s the most profound thing he’s ever written, destined to live forever in the annals of literature?”
“I rather doubt it. What IS an annal, anyway?”
“It IS an odd-sounding word, isn’t it? I will —”
“Don’t!”
“What? I was just reaching for my phone to ask the etymology of ‘annal.’”
“And next thing you know, 15 minutes will have passed and you’ll forget why you picked up the infernal device.”
“‘Infernal’ — that’s another interesting word — Hey, Siri?”
“No! And damn Alexa, too. We can parse this one ourselves. ‘Infernal’ probably relates to ‘inferno,’ which suggests the fires of hell, and so we probably use the word ‘infernal’ to describe that which we perceive as hellish.”
“I wonder how fire became associated with hell? I can just as well imagine hell as an icy cold and dark place.”
“Yes, but fire burns and consumes, and it hurts like hell if you get too close.”
“I think I understand.”
“And then there are the times when I understand nothing.”
“Is this one of those times?”
“I’m not sure I’m in a position to say.”
“We’re spouting nonsense, aren’t we?”
“I’m not sure. This very well might be brilliant.”
