no shame november

We all have a story to tell; that, in itself, is an indisputable fact.
The question is, how honest are we willing to be?

There will be remainders left over after a true story – figurative paper cuts, smudges of verbal ink on fingers, dog-eared memory holders, something. Simply put, a true story will strike something inside of you. It will be sincere. Unaffected. Artless. It should feel tangible and raw, picked from the sleeve that you carry your emotions on.

When it all comes to together, all that’s left is this clumsily written history. Sometimes it’s difficult and not taken very well, like a handful of pills and a glass all-empty. But it’s the truth, and I don’t think it’s possible to ask for much else. Even when the words stumble and slip, there are still details in between the breaths and syllables. Even though my thoughts are inconsistent, my head is not concise, and my sense is irregular, I try my best to make my words genuine. After all, a true story isn’t told; it’s felt.

I need to keep grounded, even when my head is in the clouds. I have to stay honest. I need to remain humbled. I have been told so many things in my life, so many things tell me that I’m not “deserving” or “valuable.”

But you know what?

I sing anyway.

(celestialblues)