I tell my story late at night in my dreams, where no one will notice.
My life has always felt like a “story”, and in telling my story, I have always felt like I was a narrator, never quite sure when the page should be turned. Pieces all put together in random parts, not knowing what fits where or why those parts feel so fictional at times. Then again it’s always been easier to narrate, tell the story as if there’s a cast of characters, than actually come to terms with the fact I am the main character and I’m living it, and the supporting roles are being played by real people and the events actually happened.
So often I close the book, put it on the shelf and act as if it’s of no importance. Just a dusty novel whose pages are yellowing. After all, there’s new exciting novels to write with bright white pages that hold sparkly inspiring words and are bound strong together with hard covers. They stand so tall and handsome on the shelf.
Eventually and inevitably my eyes will find themselves gazing back. My fingers clumsily fumbling through the fragile pages of my life. There’s a story that’s gone unnoticed. A story that was never really given the respect it deserved. Respect and compassion not found in the telling, but from the recognizing and owning it as my own. I realize all the sparkle and strength in the world can not compare to or diminish the heart and soul that is held in the pages of my life that I have yet to acknowledge. After all knowing where I came from is no less important than knowing where I am going. You don’t need to notice me, I need to wake up and notice myself.