littlebitofearth

Like the vast sky teeming with stars, I am full of stories.
A thousand stories, a million.
My stories and yours, some real and some imagined.
I love to hear them, to read them, to consume them.
Come sit by me and tell me about your lover, your mother, your need, your fear.
Across a cafe table, hands curled around a mug. Beside a lacquered bar, balancing a cocktail in a martini glass. Over the desk in my office, a box of tissues between us.
On my computer screen.
Bring me your stories! You will find a sympathetic ear.
From the absurd to the mundane, truth may be stranger than fiction but it is all valuable.
The stories fill me up.

Like a boiling kettle, the stories spill out of me, from my mouth, my steadily typing fingers.
What good is a story that isn't shared?
It is how we amuse or astonish, entreat, explain.
If you have known me for even a minute, you know I have a story for you.
So often our unique loves, our unique pain is not so unique after all.
It connects us, but how do we know if we don't share?
You are not alone. WE are not alone.
The stories bring us together.

Like a penitent heretic, slinking into the last pew, I come here craving the chaotic communion.
I have walked away for one season, or sometimes for years, but I always find myself back in this chapel.
Without this place, this push, a thousand things pull me in a million directions and away from this thing I love.
I just want to write.
The space in my days fills fast but now I type faster.
The stories are enough.