There is no story here. A story would require experience or insight,

wisdom or perception. A story would imply depth of character, integrity, or

a personality that charms or heals or entertains or uplifts. Or failing that, an

unrestrained passion justified by its brilliant intensity, its longing, or even its

loathing.

A story is magic. A story is not an aging hollow shell bereft of

some little kindred spirit or soul-link to capture and echo and reverberate the

distant voices within. It doesn’t sit, dull porcelain cracking and covered

with dust, sifting through coagulating dreams and decaying adjectives in fruitless,

despairing effort to create itself.

A story is substance. It’s not a translucent apparition to sidestep or pass

through indifferently. Fingers indent into its honest flesh to grasp it with both hands

and squeeze out the juicy authenticity of it. A story is an ancient potion;

our very lives poured out from another’s liquid soul.

But this is not a story. A story would suggest an intrinsic worth

somehow, meriting interest, something interesting. It would evoke a

desire to listen to it, spend time with it, memorize it. There is no story here.

There is only me.

01/23/2003

Posted on 12/01/2017
Copyright © 2024 Anne Di Baguette