My insides are screaming, dying to be heard. Dying? Is that too pitiful of language? What could be stronger than death. Life? I suppose; it has been said, dying is easy, living is harder. I sit here at my desk, shadows crossing behind my back, the moon acutely peering through my window and the ivories playing softly in the background. Everything is silent.
The world rotates, yet here I am. Static. Holding on to every last moment, each inhale and exhale, incase I won’t take another. Savoring moments with friends, listening to stories, while exclusively reflecting on my own. My heart sings to its favorite rhythm, stirring a tornado of notes and thoughts and memories within my brain and – STOP… please…
My heart hums softer now, yet the words grow louder within my head, beginning to overwhelm every sense of my being as IF I could see them floating across my eyes, wrapping around me until I could no longer see. Blinded by darkness in search of the light. The moon shines brighter outside my window, and Clair De Lune croons.
But the funny thing is, I don’t want you to hear me, I want you to understand me. To see me. I want you to sing with me, twirl with me under the blanketed night of stars, and envision with me – a world in which LIFE is what people boast about. Let’s talk about the times that brought us together to fix the bridges we have burned, or that one time that Dad put on a tutu and brought you to work dressed as a Princess, because at one point you were one. Not the hellion child all parents fear of raising, but the child with an imagination as infinite as the galaxies, fearless beyond measure, and as riveting as the questions she poses to herself in this wild, and strange world. We get one chance at life – not saying it will be perfect – but why not fill it with acts of good and accounts of the jaw dropping surroundings that we often times fail to appreciate.
Have you ever noticed the shade between the ocean blue and summer setting orange of a sunset? Or the fiery magenta mixing between the slits of a baby chick yellow in the early stages of the sunrise? Or the way close friends who have been distant for so long, reconnect as if distance was just a gap in the concrete?
I want to sing out. I want my voice to be heard. But here I will remain – hushed and undisturbed, between the wall of a computer and the eyes or ears of – whoever is out there – I will let these words speak out for me instead. I will paint the world with my imagination; not through rose-tinted glasses, but instead through passion and wonder and accord. We cannot hide all pain, nor choose not to accept that we live in an unsafe world. Nevertheless, that should not deter us from fearing the fall. Rather we should learn how to defy gravity: elude the scope of judgment and criticism and hatred. Gather your hands together and reach out to someone you don’t know. Everyone has a story. And every story should be told.