for most of my life, people have entrusted me with their stories: family folklore, their gossip, dreams, the mundane of their everyday- with time, i realize how all the little pieces of these stories fit together, how specific excerpts of lives and living i’ve encountered have actively combined with chance to create my own-
the shit part of this is that i inevitably participate in, and accumulate the weight of ritual, pain, guilt and regret of things past, but these are the necessities of the larger narrative- and as much as i’m moved to build my understanding of it by listening, i know what a waste it all would be if i couldn’t contribute to it in its telling—
however disjointed the parts may seem in their many guises- they come together clearly when there is effort to collect and watch patiently,
i absorb and tell stories with my heart because after the cool, after the deflecting, we all know we must meet ourselves at night,