Eighth Post: Bonfire

Night has come. A few people are left enjoying the bonfire. I was enjoying it, feeling the wind chill me in a deep sort of way. If things were more silent, I would find some piece of mind, perhaps. I felt an echo of an echo of the past, yet again.

I don't know what is wanted of me to have trouble in my soul, still. I have my story, and often it gets dismissed and dismantled, and it all seems hopeless pointless and over now. Perhaps if the story still lives in me and is still looking for a way out, then perhaps all is not lost. 

For as long as I live, my heart still lives, and the heart always knows the truth, and the truth is the story, the story which can not be crushed no matter how much it is dismissed or judged or unheard, or I might be lead to doubt it.

For as long as I live, there is always hope, there are always new opportunities, another chance to try again and get it right. 

Maybe one day I will tell the story, and it will live fully, and be received, not crushed. 

I think it is true, all people's feelings, whatever age, are valid. Perhaps next time I tell the story of my youth, I will hold on to that, and force all others away from the narrative.