Pieces: We are but parts to a whole
or what stops the soul from singing
Poem by Carolyn F. Chryst
We, the story writers, each of us have pieces of the truth in the tales we weave. One writer writes of portals to other worlds and I think damn — that was my idea. Another writer writes of trees as armies and I think damn that was my idea. I am stopped.
Words in a sermon call out to the congregation — we are but star dust — and again damn, damn, damn. I’d have to stop thinking altogether if I am to keep all my stories from being told before I have the courage or time to write them. I am frozen.
I have such a collection of parts, fragments of stories, nearly done tales waiting for me, these parts are floating in a cloud.
A flame of clarity burns through the icy fog and I see and feel with certainty — these are our stories not mine — We each of us hold a piece of the truth to be keyed into existence.
Should we ever, gather together, without ego or malice or adverse, gather in a true roundtable discussion, a sharing of the bits and pieces we hold and hear
Then we could as a people hear where we came from … we could will a better future for people to come. We could shore up their thoughts and reactions for a better, healthier, and more content people.
We writers have tried before with the library. We try again with the internet. We story keepers need to share with each other the mysteries we hear without fear of ridicule.
Know it will come and as was once whispered “fear not” the time has arrived
WRITE, then write , and write again.
