There is a Story Monster inside me. But I have not seen her for a while.
Oh why did I go for it? Did I say yes to everything? Why did I do these things that make it so difficult to find the monster. The shy monster who loves time and loneliness and empty space. Plans scare her away. She buries herself, makes a nest in my throat and stays there indefinitely while I busy around and do stuff and check things off of my list.
Who wants to be busy like this?
I suppose I do. Because I’m scared of her. I’m scared of the monster. She grabs me and I lose myself. She moves me for her cause which, in surrendering to it, dissolves a part of me.
Where are you Story monster? You scary, scared being? You brilliant wave, who takes me for your vessel. I miss you. I know I have not been a great house keeper. The room smells like caffeine and importance. I could clean up… Talk less, do less, worry less.
Talk less, do less, worry less.
Love more. Thank people more. Play more. Rest.
Or I could stay here casting words around a unknown space, making desperate attempts at finding you, at seeing the invisible by scattering the glitter of language to reveal a negative image. The Words point to you, suggest your whereabouts.
Words are the lingerie for a truth that forever changes shape. I could lose myself as a fetishist - obsessed with the form, mistakenly stroking leather and lace, forgetting about your body underneath.
Beautiful Story Monster. I’m sorry.
