My Song

07 Feb 2000

I tried to write a story once, but go so caught up in the whys and wherefores, that I forgot to tell the story.

A story is, you know, just a song. It has the same cadence, if you listen real hard, as the best warble from a songbird’s throat. I guess the facts are the bass that keeps counter-point. That must be why the facts threw me off so much; I never did have much rhythm, and playing bass requires so much patience. What is the point in that, when there are so many things to do that just call out for you to rush to each and every one?

Yet, my life never rushes like the yearning to place words to these pages has me scampering to lay down my song, so that I can hear it anew. I don’t understand talent that dislikes itself. Myself, I am in love with the voice that pours from my pen. I revisit each piece, listen anew to the song, whispering its beat in my head, voicing them aloud if the mood strikes, and remaining continually awed by how much I exalt in what I do.

Enamoured of my own song. Tremendous ego, I know. Yet, it must be, for us talented ones to continue, year on year, when the only applause is the sound of our own voice.