Cloud Stories

I’m afraid I don’t have a muse today, I hardly have a mu..

Maybe just an m.

But I shall write anyhow, as that is what I’ve learned to do.  My words have only ever been just a cloud of nonsense anyhow, and as we all know, clouds like to tell different things to do different people.

They’re rather mischievous that way.

So perhaps some lucky sky-gazer shall see something worth-while in this stormy mess, this cloudy cloud of mine today.

Speaking of sky-gazing, when is the last time you did this?  If you are a child between the ages of 2 and 99, I strongly encourage it.  There is something brilliant about watching the sky, whether it is during the bright of day or beneath the glow of night.  It makes my heart seem to beat more in sync with itself.

The other day I met a boxer (the human version, not the dog) while buying some boxes at a store.  He was working as a cashier but produced the most awkward appearance of one of those poor cats wearing ballerina slippers and an undersized tutu.

Something just didn’t quite fit.

For whatever reason, he decided to tell me his story right there in the middle of the check-out line.  I imagine this was very likely due to the fact that  he was the sort of person who would talk as long as someone would listen, and I happened to be the only one in line.  Just as I must write, some must speak.

Being a girl of very few words and abundant curiosity when it comes to story,  I was more than glad to oblige.

His soul was kind and he sounded like Rocky when he talked.  This seemed even more fitting when he told me he used to be a competitive boxer and showed me his beaten hands.  Two of his knuckles were quite literally down by his wrist, an astounding (and somewhat disturbing) sight to behold.

After listening to him talk for a few minutes, the heart behind his unhurried words became abundantly clear.  It was his family.  Rather than pursue the surgery he most obviously needed, he chose to live with the constant pain of dislocated knuckles and defective wrists so that his wife and kids could eat.  There was no hint of complaint in his words or demeanor, he said it like it he was mentioning the weather outside.

Not just any weather either.  Sunny, beautiful weather full of greens and blues and gold.

This boxer man broke my heart and earned my respect, an honor I hardly deserved but was amply blessed by.

Story is a most beautiful and mysterious thing indeed, I must learn more about the world through story than any other agent.  When forced or otherwise employed as a means to an end, she seems to lose her power almost entirely.  But when told in her most artless state, pure and free of ulterior motive or desire, story is (in my opinion) one of the most magnificent, fearsome creatures of perception and thought we’ve been given.  She is ancient and deep, running roots so deep they are often lost or buried, but  they are never fully forgotten.

A true story doesn’t die, but sometimes a very long while passes before she is told.


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