There is a story there, beneath the fallen tree. Perhaps it sings like wind or runs deep like roots.
There is a story there, in the bright, green sea. It is full of trash and imagination.
The world keeps spinning and the stories blur between lives lived and souls squandered. There are those that do nothing but care, and those that do everything but. They all have their reasons. My job is to show it fairly and explain it just. Mine is not to justify.
I have hands held tightly in mine, and they are small and trusting. There are eyes on mine and they are sharp and watching. I find it hard to expand upon the ignorance and meaningless of it all.
The good comes easily enough, and we only need walk a moment before we find the wonder. It is the sunlight between the branches, the rain against our feet, a sky deep in all directions and the smile that should always be there.
Innocence is only fleeting because we choose to let it go.
The journey is not starting and it is not ending. It is a notch on a timeline filled with risks and careless stumbles, safety nets and milestones. The peaks are mirrored by so many valleys, each staggered with steps that sink and spiral, and the timeline folds and crumbles upon our back. We watch for rocks accordingly.
The peaks give to bend, but never break. From a distance the valley is a hammock swinging lazily, and the sweat beneath it pools and glimmers like an oasis. We have no choice but to kneel and drink. The salted waters taste of lessons and the sea.
The night is short on hours and long on longing. We have walked far and seen much and their world is as big as it is contained. I tell them what I can and strive to show them more. Most stories are never told, and mine are told too often.
Then there is proud and there is humbled and there are dances around the awe.
There is a story here, and I do not know if I am the hero, the villain, the reader or the writer, but we are all the characters, every one.