Truth is I’m still discovering what it is I want to say, how I want to say and express it. I’ve begun to use writing as a means of getting out of my head and bringing others into my many worlds to enjoy, resonate, gently critique (she’s sensitive ya’ll), or simply observe my work. Putting aside my perfectionist tendencies and the need for external validation, to remind myself that it feels good to share my creativity and not always contain it in my bubble; and to encourage myself to do it again, to just keep writing because I like it, and see where it leads me. So here is a story I wrote using the prompt: “Whoa I’ve never seen this many books in one place. Did you collect all of these on your travels?”
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“Whoa, I’ve never seen this many books in one place. Did you collect all of these on your travels?”
They turn slowly to look at me from the corner of their eye, hands crossed behind their back with a book in hand, locs sweeping across the span of their shoulders which are cloaked with a regal purple and glimmering golden robe. Nothing spoken, but a faint hint of a smirk graces their face.
We’ve met before, they and I, in someplace familiar but distant. It’s a feeling. When I look closely I feel like I’m on the verge of recognition. Their words disrupt my curious observations.
“Oh you know, I’ve collected them here and there.” They wave their hand in nonchalance. “You must have quite a collection yourself. I sense you enjoy getting lost in words on a page…”
I think on that for a moment, because, yes…
“You could say that. I may be a bit of an escapist.” I share in a moment of self awareness that I can’t help to have in their presence. I run my hands over the backs of books barely held together and ones pristine as the day they were created.
“I think some of my favorite adventures I’ve probably only lived vicariously through annoyingly complex characters and some poignantly depicted worlds in a book.” I say that last part as though I’m talking to myself, and when I play back my words, I look down, slightly embarrassed at admitting how little life I’ve allowed myself to live.
They don’t acknowledge my admission, and stand with their back turned to me.
“Hmmmmm, mmmhmmm.”
Stillness in the air keeps me quiet and waiting for them to express more.
“Are you breathing?”
Confusion.
“Heart beating?”
I lift my fore and middle fingers to my neck because shit, am I? Is it?? In this moment, barely.
“Um, yeah?”
“You get to choose, what this is, your life.” They sweep their arm through the air as they turn to face me. “It’s like your very own “choose your adventure” novel.”
Pffft.
“It’s never that easy.” I mumble under my breath.
Their omniscient eyes lock with mine immediately, holding me there, piercing through mine.
“No? What keeps you then?”