The shadows:
Some people just have a sense of things and I believe I am
one of them. I’ve always been able to see way back into my past, sometimes as
young as one year old. I know that sounds crazy but nonetheless, true. I’ve always had the ear of God, meaning I
knew he was with me, guiding me past certain death on more than one occasion. I’ve
felt him blow life into my lungs as I struggled to breathe and stay with me
until he felt like letting go of my hand. I don’t know why I’ve been blessed
with these abilities but I’m grateful and proud to have been chosen. As a teller
of hundreds of stories, it never amazes me that when finished, I read it and
wonder where that came from. Sure, they’re my words, my characters, and my
story but somehow, I don’t feel like I should take credit for something I don’t
know if I wrote, or if I was just taking notes for the true author. Like most
writers we write for others to read but also to test the depths of our minds,
reaching deeper than we’ve ever gone to tie everything in a nice red bow and
offer it for sale. Every word holds meaning, every character comes alive and
sometimes dies, and every ending could be the beginning of another chapter one.
I love creating stories even if they don’t get read and just collect dust on a bookshelf
in a dark and musty room. Maybe someday one of my great-grandchildren will
stumble upon one of my stories and show great interest in the way the elders
put words on paper seemingly done without any power source, and they will read
my stories and tell their friends of their great find in a very old house in a
dark and musty room, and I will come out of the shadows and listen to my words.
M.O.
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