It is that soft music in utero, darkest before the dawn notes that play. Awareness arrives and it is not understood, yet awareness comes and then, the land is lit, the strings, the horns, the percussion all storm into existence and the sun does rise.
It is where we are right now. Soon the expanse illuminates, and 2024 dawns. I begin to consider telling stories that have never even occurred to me, yet are more about arriving here than so many others. There is a wavelength that I am hearing now that the other noise has been dealt with.
There are many gaps in my sources, but somehow I know that will not be the case for long. Associative memory is a beautiful and frightening thing. I only wish to bring the honor of the heart to pages. This is a forgotten respect and forgotten art in a world that is so bent on making us feel bitter with words in pages that somehow are trying to reach a printed CGI effect. I am so tired of this.
Where are the days where we could find the protagonist feeling small during a three AM thunderstorm, or when he or she regrets not saying what their hearts burned to declare? I want to tell about the selfless ones who always seemed to be annoyed that we were here and yet they never failed us. They were the ones who despite the atomic bomb desecrating their whole life, they showed up and they were real.
I want to find the winds of change that blew on a Sunday afternoon and set a showdown in place that could not be stopped. People who were in control and stood up at that moment. They mattered. They did not even know how to live their own lives and yet they survived. Respect dear friend, respect.
As I sit here, a hundred tales of the hearts of good people flash before me. I have to tell you, I have not even started. You have no idea.
The avalanche at dawn
It is that soft music in utero, darkest before the dawn notes that play. Awareness arrives and it is not understood, yet awareness comes and then, the land is lit, the strings, the horns, the percussion all storm into existence and the sun does rise.
It is where we are right now. Soon the expanse illuminates, and 2024 dawns. I begin to consider telling stories that have never even occurred to me, yet are more about arriving here than so many others. There is a wavelength that I am hearing now that the other noise has been dealt with.
There are many gaps in my sources, but somehow I know that will not be the case for long. Associative memory is a beautiful and frightening thing. I only wish to bring the honor of the heart to pages. This is a forgotten respect and forgotten art in a world that is so bent on making us feel bitter with words in pages that somehow are trying to reach a printed CGI effect. I am so tired of this.
Where are the days when we could find the protagonist feeling small during a three AM thunderstorm, or when he or she regrets not saying what their hearts burned to declare? I want to tell about the selfless ones who always seemed to be annoyed that we were here and yet they never failed us. They were the ones who despite the atomic bomb desecrating their whole life, showed up and they were real.
I want to find the winds of change that blew on a Sunday afternoon and set a showdown in place that could not be stopped. People who were in control and stood up at that moment. They mattered. They did not even know how to live their own lives and yet they survived. Respect dear friend, respect.
As I sit here, a hundred tales of the hearts of good people flash before me. I have to tell you, I have not even started. You have no idea.