to have the gift of storytelling is to understand that the world is not your own; that you are simply a star-struck nomad, destined to wander aimlessly over this patterned map of greens and blues with eyes eternally straining to catch a shimmer of magic beyond the next turn. your feet might grow weary or calloused; your vision might blur at times as you wrestle with the unreality of what you think you might see; your mind will surely start to play tricks on you, the way it only can when you’ve fallen utterly and completely in love with the potential of an endless sky and seen beauty coalesce into feathers and clouds. you learn the intricacies of this dizzy dance between humanity and time and struggle to transcend everything you touch and see so as not to lose yourself entirely in the wonder of someone’s very otherness.

this is the delicate balance, then, in this precarious position of messenger: to love everything just enough to learn its inner fire and project it to the world, yet refrain from losing pieces of your soul in the sadness and beauty you discover along the way.

i’m learning to compartmentalize, these days; to draw lines inside my thickening skin (what paper flesh i’ve always had!) and tuck away each little pearl: sunsets i’ve burned my eyes to crawl inside and tread marks from the soles of others’ shoes that pressed their steps into my craving palms. so give me your best things; memories of golden days and sky-wide midnights, stars like piercing eyes hiding visions no lips can tell. trust me not until you’ve heard it from my fingertips:

i’ve nothing left to give you but my words.

“the storyteller makes no choice
soon you will not hear his voice
his job is to shed light and not to master”
~ Terrapin Station, The Grateful Dead