There’s always a Story behind the story.
That’s
the one that fascinates me.
That’s
the Story that’s too complex
to communicate on
any screen, in
any book, through
any three-minute melody.
The Story
is a mystery only truly known by oneself, and, of course, one’s author. But the Story,
it can only be expressed through the medium of
any life.
A life lived,
lived boldly,
but decidedly
never alone.
(Alone.)
To live this Story
is to tell it,
and to tell it
inspires life in any who doth dare to gather ’round.
You.
You walk around these days,
you have your edited copy,
your safely packaged story
ready to tell to the masses,
a story you memorized
by its ceremonies
and milestones
that fit easily on your pages. (Your screens.)
But when will you come alive for me?
Will we ever experience the gross,
unacceptable,
scandalous
contagion of your Story?
(Because mine will be left Wanting
without yours being
grafted in.)
When will you come alive from me?
Will you ever experience the gross,
unacceptable,
scandalous
redemption of my intimacy?
My story, too, has been written.
Preserved,
misused,
underestimated,
studied.
But all the books in the world could not contain my life, my love,
the Story I have stirred up,
stirred up,
and hidden within the darkest,
darkest depths of you
(Don’t you know I was there in yours all along)
Only the Brave,
only the one in desperate pursuit of that Pearl,
doth dare dive into such depths
