I keep wanting to ask myself what kind of story is this?
It seems to be a fairy story with aliens, robots, and lasers.
With mortgages, travel and dream jobs. With tech errors and online forms,
with too much implied and too little said, with cartoons standing in for subtleties,
and blanket statements that cover you in drab spiderwebs of unspoken expectation, and thin hospital clothes.
Is this a story about betrayal so banal, and so slowly enacted,
that is may as well be paint drying,
for all you care, for all you could care by now?
Is this a story about wonder?
About sparks and freedom and delight, which costs nothing?
Delight which shows up uninvited like a sudden hail storm,
with ice the size of golf balls, denting your car,
happiness that makes a mark, which you’ll never choose to erase.
No matter what comes next, or who?
Is this story about a devoted heart?
Is it a romance that plays out over centuries?
Where martyred in this life time,
the spirit of your dream lives on to succeed far past your death?
Is it the kind of story where you have to choose not lose faith?
Where you have to believe?
Is it a story about pragmatism and follow through?
About small victories amassed over a lifetime,
to build a quiet hill of contentment,
on which to greet your grandchildren?
Is this a story about a boy who wouldn’t give up on himself?
Or about a girl who only thought she was lost in the wood,
when in fact she was floating,
and her every step was aligned to trace a gossamer castle in the air,
a castle she would never see, and could never imagine, until at last, bereft,
she lay down and died?
Is this a story about death and anger, about who killed whom,
and if rage is a continent, growing redder and more massive,
even as bits of it crumble off to poison a populace sea?
A story about unbelievable loss and self acceptance?
About family brutality, and prisons, about tidal waves and fire?
Is it a humdrum everyday story, with more than it’s fair share of tragic laundromats,
and cigarette breath and awkward unrequested explanations?
A story where the word money is a mantra and no one wants to pay?
Is this a story about laughing on the porch, and one day bleeding into the next,
about cleaning the sink and how the dishes collect just endlessly looping,
about children crying, laughing, running, alive alive alive?
A story about painting late at night when the world is sleeping?
A story of an accident, a miracle, a bend in the river?
A story of music from the rooftop that goes on forever,
out over the city while stray dogs wander in the early morning,
our coats pulled tight to keep in last night’s darkness,
faces upturned to see the dawn?
A man on a slow Sunday singing arias from an open window,
not last century, but only last week?
Is this the story of drugs and deceptions, of a one way street,
and a car crash from sudden driving fast in both directions?
A story of when one cell splits and becomes two,
only to keep multiplying, cozy as Christmas,
while all the while planets spin on and out into further incomprehensible space?
It this a story of an invention that will change the lives of billions?
Is it passion that breaks into sparks of infinite happiness,
and those sparks set your house alight, and you have no choice but to watch it,
smoke clouding the stars in heaven, while every thing you have ever known,
and the eyes you have to see it with burn burn burns?
Is it dancing all night, that you really can’t remember
imaginary sparkles and laughing ’till you hurt?
Is there an awakening, an opening subtle, but possible, on a rainy Tuesday?
Can you take a deeper breath?
Are there tree sprites and Old Gods,
young pretty doctors and worn out school teachers?
Is there a parade or a fair, will someone take my ticket?
Do you pay to get in, or is it getting out that you pay for?
Does this story last long, can we all be in it?
When it stops will you tell me another one?
Is this the kind of story people like to hear?