I feel really small, here. Sitting on this questionably green carpeted floor of a local bookstore. My eyes peer up at the labels written above the various books before me. There are three signs, marked in orange with white bold letters that read, “New Biography.”
Before me I see the beginning and endings of stories, lives. I see legacies spanning the wooden shelves. Legends.
Will it be enough for us, to read and recognize and cry alongside every moment written and documented along the pages of novels? Will it be enough to never tell our own stories.
These words speak into an area much deeper inside of me. Their stories don’t brush the surface and float away. These sentences have carved messages. Probing me to learn. Begging me to create.
Asking me again and again, “What do you have to say?”
I want my life to be a testament to that calling. I want to run at it full force. I want to be tired at the end, I don’t want to have anything left to give.
As I stand up, gathering my laptop and keys, I face the titles and authors’ names written along the novels sitting on the shelves directly in front of me. We’re standing on the same level now. Breathing the same air.
I have so much to say. I want to get my words right.
The mantra I hope we all continue to muster to ourselves and one another is quiet and smooth, but steady.