A Single Hand Writing Several Stories
Quelle: Spotify
A single hand writing several stories...
We seem to find comfort in categories and peace in placement. the world moves quickly around us. there are so many variables, and unanswered questions. who? what? when? and more importantly why? we feel like we constantly need to pick a side and stick with it...whether it be politically, socially, or artistically. despite the fact that our outlooks and philosophies are ever changing with each passing day. I have struggled with this often through the years. taking one facet of myself, both personally and creatively, and holding onto it so tightly, until there was nothing but ash in my hand. who would i be without a definite description? a tangible tag line? the weight of one question can be enough to make a back break. i picked up the phone and called an old friend.
"this is how i am feeling...and i don't exactly know what to do with it"
"come visit me" she said "and we will figure it out together"
I packed my bags. three pairs of pants. two shirts. and one old notebook that i had yet to press a pen to. i kissed ella on the cheek and said. "i will see you when it's sorted." for two days we sat in silence on that beach and listened to the waves. foolishly, i waited for an answer to wash up on to the shore. but by my sandy feet there was only an old rusty bottle cap to speak of. this was of no surprise to me.
"nothing is easy" i thought.
"yes" she said aloud, "everything is possible!"
I looked at her. as deep into her big eyes as i could stand. it was such a simple four word statement. yet, it sat inside me with the strength of dynamite. little explosions started going off in my head that got bigger and bigger and bigger. with my lips slightly moving to the beat of the moment, i kept repeating her words over and over to myself...
"yes...everything is possible, yes...everything is possible, yes...everything is possible."
She sat back on her elbows and stretched out in the sun.
"you know" she said. "the thing with you, is that you somehow managed to take a tiny percent of yourself, the smallest fraction, and turn it into your only equation. in this life, there are so many sides to everything. and that includes you. you have so many things waiting to come out...and yet you insist on building from only one part of yourself. you wouldn't point to your pinky and say this is my entire body. just like you wouldn't look at one branch and declare that this is a tree. but if you add all of the little puzzle pieces together, it makes up one entire picture. but right now, how you live, and how you create, you are just a little torn corner of a photograph. and i know deep inside you, even more so than me, you are dying to see what's in the rest of the frame"
She continued....
"a single hand can write several stories. you have made your point. You have said everything you can about it. lay that old character aside for a minute and allow yourself to make some new ones. put them in films, paintings, poems or songs. give them different names if you like...they can be heroes or villains, it doesn't matter. but what does matter is that all of them together, standing side by side, will make up one thing as a whole...and that's you. be brand new, let yourself have the innocence of a kid again. have it be your call to arms...make a revival out of it."
I reached into my bag and pulled out my crumpled, empty notebook. she handed me a pen that was resting in secret behind her ear that suggested she knew all along that this is where the story would begin . i scribbled out four words of my own...
"THE NEW KID REVIVAL"
She looked at the smudged ink, gently smiled and said...
"i guess you're ready to go home now."
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