You can’t stop stories from being told. Because they sustain the universe. My little story helps keep the moon up at night. And all of our stories, from all over the star-swept skies, harmonies like strings on a mandolin.
But sometimes I feel like a painting. Always looking into someone else’s life, always watching, not ever partaking. I like that more. Being quiet. Listening. Because when I talk, the only thing that comes out are tangles anyway.
I have been away from you for so long. First there was my vacation and then a most surprising move. South Sioux City is where I am now. It’s small. I like it. There’s big insects out in the back yard that hum and chirp almost as loud as the birds and there’s a train that runs right through my new backyard.
I watch many movies and clean. I read and listen to music. Sometimes I try and sing along, and get frustrated with my own voice, so I quit.
My book is next. After all of the unpacking, I’ll write more. And then I’ll be happy. I’m not happy with talking. Only writing words. They come easier through my fingers than my mouth.