2003-07-12 - 6:37 a.m.
Some things are simply inevitable. Stories I think, are their own entities. They choose us, and nag at us until we write them down, or sing them, or paint them or whatever. The more we resist the more they beat themselves into our lives, erode our flesh and shape us. Not with knives, but with the slow and constant ebb and flow of the tides. Grain by grain we wash away. And maybe someday those grains wash up on another shore, another story, chipping away at someone else's being, until that person bends or is broken. Energy is never created nor destroyed, nor truly captured. We just hold on to bits of it now and then and hopefully enjoy the ride. Thats what all these things we do are, all the little breezes that push us to create and perform are bits of force from something ancient and familiar. Heaven and hell are not so far away, they whistle through the air and roar up on the beach, creak and sway in the forest and whisper secret nothings somewhere in the back of our heads.
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