telling stories

I just read a quote that made me feel real good. It goes “narrative can act as a place to try out new possibilities and models for living”.


Sharing, or learning, or hearing or reading stories, whether with others, or on our own, or in our own brain, can help us to unpack things, to try things out before putting stuff into practice, to know how it feels to be some thing we are not; not yet; never; once; maybe; will be.


We can ease into it, tasting the salty water before we let it swallow us whole.


It fascinates me, fixes me slightly bewitched.


Why? When? Where? The world is a fucking wonder box and I want you to tell me all about it.


I want to hear each tick of time bomb gone right and gone wrong.


I want your spit to hit my nose, gross and awkward, but with jest in your eyes and some thing, some thing that rides all the loose ends, stitched together.


And words. Words, they become too much and too many, to intricate and to heavy, and I get sucked right in.


Weaving those webs, whittle away at those old bones, mark stone or skin or etch deep the scars.


Those narratives of things past and those things present, those questions and fixtures.


Intertwining themes and pleasantries, anger, discomfort, didactical tactics, to trigger heart strings and yearnings, change provisions and postulate obscenities.


That place where language hits dendrites and excites electro-currents to charge to their destination, potential. That trigger of a response.


Sigh of relief or awkward agitation.


That moment you are told to conjure up a feeling of discomfort, and. Own. That. Shit.


Own it, feel it, name it, put texture and colour and smell to it, describe in intricate detail each curved or sharp or pointy edge, breath deep its stench and realise you can mould it. YOU own it.


And we can come together in complete and utter awe and respect, for who we have been, who we are, who you are, who I am. Where we jigsaw our pieces together to make us. Where we manipulate and mould that clay supple and delve finger nails into the firm folds of time.


Fiction tells tales, told stories, ties together so majestically that future.


Those short circuits of pulsating vivacity that sends shivers up spins and circumvent that which we inspire, rending it complete.


And even if only in our minds eye, where our senses betray us and humanity renders us speechless.


Where you becomes me and we become human, we allow neuronal firing to take us to places we ain’t ever been before, to places we wish to go and where we become caught up in the sinuously elaborate genesis of life.




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