this is (probably) about you.
There are so many people here writing such beautiful things. So many poets and painters and programmers and tellers of their own personal truth that move me. Sometimes there's a guestbook or an email address that makes it possible for me to say so in a place it might be seen. Just as often, there's no way to connect, and all my words die in the womb.
I guess I've never wanted to be a quiet voice in the void. There's always been this hope of hearing someone else singing at the end of the hall, however distant they might be. Most of the time I end up singing to myself. Trying to find a melody that feels like synergy to me.
A lot of the connective tissue of life is just this: a series of near-misses and moments of grace that are stumbled into as often as they're built by our own hands and heads and hearts. As bittersweet as that can be, maybe it wouldn't mean so much if we struck gold every time we tossed a stone in the stream and hoped to see it hit something more than our own face reflected and refracted by the same soup that spawned us.
If you're reading this, chances are I love what you do. Even if it's just having the courage to be yourself in a world that's largely forgotten what a gift that is.