I am not one who naturally shares, though I am one who loves to give. In that, I mean that of the monetary offerings that I may have, if it’d make you happy or bring a smile, you can keep them; the things that are close to my heart, or part of my heart, I’d share if I could, but often can’t.
I am driven to write, in part, because I don’t want to forget and sharing is the byproduct.
You see, your brain dumps trivial information over time to make way for a constant input of data and to clear space for processing. All of your stories and experiences and exposures become your variable: it’s nature and nurture and everything in between.
I do not want to insinuate that I have come to, by way of age, some manner or degree of wisdom; this is something that I have known since I was a girl. It is not lesson, but integral truth: I am appalled by stagnation and driven to experience, and as a consequence, less prone to sadness as it’s often felt within a narrow field of vision. The scope, sometimes, has been pre-determined.
The only time my heart has ever truly broken was for people who I love.
My sister’s voice echoing through the foyer, bouncing up the wooden stairs, “would like like to see my new drawing?”
“Actually, no, not really,” followed a second voice that kind of hung in the air, like a fact that needed checking. A kick to your guts.
In a drawer, in my Mother’s writing, an affirmation of self-worth; a struggle. I read it in her kind voice, folded it, and placed it back. The drawer stuck a little as it shut.
A conversation over lunch plates: hot tea, silverware, and an unsolicited bit of history. “He would have rather died out there than come back. I think he wanted to.” I know that to be true and I know that, if you listen really, really hard you can hear the electricity in a room as opposed to what you’re being told.
There is a spark in some people, and as you float around you light it in others, or they light it in you – it might be small, but it never goes out.
Your heart breaks for people in the dark. A long exhale and short, shallow subsequent breaths; a candle in a vacuum that will never, ever light. The delirium of deprivation.
I want to write because there’s all this sadness, and story, and truth; I want to write because there is, incidentally, laughter.