write it again

Some days we can pretend that there is an express to where we are going. Everyone seems to climb aboard. As long as there isn’t any disagreement about how we are dressed and what we choose as baggage, the travel is easy. Other days the airwaves are quiet, so the ease of the rails will move you into different directions. Relationships can be this. One day in tune with each other directionally, the next day out of tune with white noise. The trouble settles in when we use that same white noise for comfort, turning it up louder to sleep.

This is not writing. Not like the films or the grios . This isn’t a story worth knowing. This is merely something relatable. Pain is always relatable. Numbing yourself passed the nerve reaction is relatable. Stories worth knowing are the stories that move even further passed that whine of disturbance.

True stories are like true love. True love crashes into us like ocean waves even after the truth of hygiene and mental wellness are exposed. True love survives the theft of days from drugs and alcohol abuse. True stories must have that eventual rise or it’s just gossip, the sensationalized trash about a girl and a minute or two spent sharing a hollow space. Live long enough and the only story to tell is one about love, or the one of shallow puddles. Hold on too tight and it’s all shallow puddles. Squeeze too tight and the love turns to murky waters.