So many stories roil in my mind all day. A word, a whisper of an idea and suddenly I see things happening, a story beginning to play out. Always it is only a sentence or two, only a ghost of a true story.
What am I supposed to do with them? Am I to chase after each one, coax the story out of each one? Are they all to be written, to be heard and read? Certainly, it is not so, some of them are not very promising.
So maybe I'm not supposed to go after each one. Maybe I'm to keep them all in my heart and in my mind, holding them until I can use them. Maybe they're just waiting to be mentioned in one grand story. Maybe all they want is to be what they are when they come to me, simple sentences and inclinations. So I listen, I feel and hold and keep. I don't know the true story waiting to be told. I don't know the grand story that's waiting for me somewhere. Maybe I'll find it one day.
