All These Books

            These pieces of prose are parts of your soul, put down on paper for all to see. The world doesn’t wait for them. An audience of indifferent, yawning spectators watch as you step onto stage every single time, squinting into the spotlight and trying to get their attention.
            Yet each act belongs. Each monologue deserves to be heard.
            They’re journal entries, to be honest. Messy, distorted, blurry diary pages. Made up characters in made up worlds with real emotions and real meaning. The passion and confusion of the day goes into these stories that get read late into the night.
            Some work better than others. But all have their place.
            The naïve love story. The guilt-ridden redemption story. The confused longing. The angry pointing. The darkness and the light.
            These are pieces of me, for better and often for much worse. But they’re true.
            They don’t follow formulas. Call me whatever you like, but don’t say I’m predictable.
            I’m still learning, still figuring this out, still trying to weave a wonderful tale.
            I once dreamt of seeing one of these put into book form. Then I dreamt of several side-by-side. Then I longed for the day when I did this fulltime.
            Now I long for something simple. I long for one of this little stories to blow all the rest away.
            The right time and the right place and the right voice and the right theme.
            I want to take that indifferent audience and turn them on their side. To make them wonder where that came from. To make them suddenly question everything before it.
            I don’t want praise because it makes me uncomfortable. But I do want these stories to mean something. They are like my children. Each one is special to me and always will be.
            Maybe one day the whole thing will make sense to others like it makes sense to me. This dark, creepy little tale sitting right next to this bright, corny little story. I want to show that those make sense side-by-side. They make sense coming from the same dark, corny soul.
             Throughout, hopefully I will show someone growing up, changing, believing, sharing. Always trying. Always hoping.
            Always believing. 

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