There are so many sides to every horizon. No single mind could hold it all at once. No single story could even begin to shine a light or open the windows of the hearts that stood at each. That doesn’t stop one, though, from telling the unheard and unseen stories sung by those hidden hearts. So we must choose. Will we hear them? Will we tell them?
Maybe it's because I was reading all these books about writers, ordinary people refusing to not tell the story that burned in their bones. Maybe it was because I started to see life in the wind. Whatever the reason, one day I just refused to bare untold stories. I refused to let the unseen souls sing their song alone. The world needs to hear them, the world needs to see them.
Every choice we make in life becomes defining. Whatever path we choose to take, we also choose to engrave on our souls. Permanent or temporary, we'll decide later on, but defining nonetheless. Whatever brought me to this new defining moment of being a storyteller, I chose it permanent. I chose to let it wrap itself around my heart, and pound in my rib cage, echoing through every vein in my being until it become permanent. I chose that. I chose that be used I could no longer deny my purpose. So I gave it a home. Here in these words. Here in these stories. Not my own, for I am only an echo of those unheard and unseen hearts desperately ready to sing their song.
I choose this, what I wrote, I choose this.