We all have a narrative.
Some moments are written in lead, ink, or blood- but, nevertheless, we all have a story- the narrative we’d all love to tell about ourselves. In our own way.
If we could, we’d write chapters about our accolades and exaggerate the glamour. We’d
paint ourselves in fluorescent lighting- unknowing of its faulty exposure. It’s so easy to waltz your pen across paper- d r a g g i n g out the highlights and beauty of the story that is you. It is so easy
to scribble the stable, wise moments of our lives in BOLD INK. We have no problem illustrating the
“flat” characters in our lives- the people who played their roles and left on
cue.
We try to hide the complex, round characters that enter on page 2 and cause havoc until page 200. We lighten the font on people who made an impact on our protagonist selves – the ones causing heartbreak and tears. We try our best not to admit that we can be impressionable … through naiveté, love, or pain. We use words like “impressionable” to avoid words like “vulnerable”. We only allot a page or two to the things that haunt us and bind us. We award a paragraph to the pain and a sentence to the sin. Honestly, we’d rather be heroes than sidekicks. We'd rather display the strong moments instead of the weak lapses.
Then we have the unspoken narrative: we mull over the unsaid words that are left ‘pin balling’ in the dark and
sharp corners of our minds. We mourn the death of worthy words that are drowned in waves of bed sheets. Or perhaps, some of these
romantic whispers are muffled under fists ... fists that are clinching these same waves in an erotic swim. The things we wish we could say. The things we yearn to proclaim. The
thoughts we’d love to birth into the air. How we would love to give up our fear
for adoption. How we'd love to foster up our own narrative in love.
With every day that passes, every emotion felt, and every word said…we write our narrative. So, speak. Speak your passionate, flawed, dark, and lovely story into existence.
