the Top-Soil

I believe there are words buried in us all. Whether we write them down or speak them or whether we plan them out elaborately just to conceal them in a moment of fear or shame or doubt. These words form the story we want to tell; the story defined by our deepest emotions and clearest memories. Some people tell a funny story, others tell sad ones of loss and buried pain, still others talk in circles, never telling their story at all, simply avoiding the truth they haven't told themselves yet. In one way though everyone's story shares a common element, we all tell a story about ourselves. Selfish you say. That is the only story I can really tell convincingly, that is really the only story I know. I may adapt it to be more exciting or suspenseful but, in the end, its just about me. Selfish? Only if I don't convey the story in a way to capture you, in a way that makes it your own experience, your own life as well.
Mine is a love story. I hate to admit it. Love is why we live; to get it, to give it, to feel it more. A string of thoughts connected by conjunctions and punctuation in my mind, pulled together in my waking hours, and exquisitely portrayed on my dream's canvas in the night; all a painting of love. A painting yet to be uttered. How does one speak art? Would you know Michelangelo if you heard it or read it? Even now the words I have inside me are buried beneath the words that you are reading. I'm telling you about them without telling them directly to you. Michelangelo simply peeled away the outer layers of the stone to reveal the image underneath. Forthcoming posts will determine if I can shovel away the earth to reveal the words, the story, the love? buried within me.