Precious angel poet baby. Yes you, reader of these words. You have something to say. You always have. It’s been there, right beneath your skin for years, twitching at the ends of your finger tips and making your tongue itch and your throat burn. It’s been dancing at the perimeter of your mind, where clouds dance upon the knifes edge of reality and you have longed to jump off of the safety of this, the highest building you ever built with responsible action, you have longed to leap into the wind and to find out if you can fly, if there is a net beneath these clouds or if falling is the real experience. It’s time to jump. It’s time to write. It’s time to speak those words that have lived inside the cave of your heart for too long now, inscribed in pictographs on the rock wall of your interior – bring them into light. We are defined by our stories. Words can be the tools by which we distill meaning from the chaos in our lives, change tragedy in knotted ropes that we can drop down into the abyss of another person life and offer them a way out. And this is my rope. Even if you are not at the bottom of a well, or sitting submerged in something bigger than you imagined it ever could be, I say grab on. Even if you are ok. Especially then. We have all struggled, we will all know pain again and again, but here I can also offer you hope. I can offer you happiness. I can offer you the one thing I have, the thing I have always had – my story.
So please, draw near the fire. Warm your hands. Settle in. And when you’re done listening and reading, done absorbing and distilling, I hope you have a pen and a paper nearby. Because this always been about you. And your story is aching to be told too. And someone is aching to hear it.