All things are full of labor; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.
I'm back in the run of things, sitting here, in the basement of my grandparents house.
My flight got in at about 4 and I've sorta been bumming around the house, staying away from my computer, trying to procrastinate as much as possible before diving, diving, diving into weddings and workshops.
This past week in Georgia was a good one. I'd forgotten about stories,
about how much I am entirely addicted to them.
I forgot how epic even the simplest of stories can be.
And how everyone has a story.
From a homeless guy, Tristan, on Peachtree ave
to David the Barista who doesn't even like coffee
From Angie, a woman with a heart for the homeless
to William, the warrior in the woods
From Martha, the retired carnival worker...
to Mike, my theologian friend from the laundry mat
I forgot that everyone has their own story.
I get so easily wrapped up in my own story that I forget that the world is made up of little ones. A billion little stories about people, meshed together to make up History.
I am tempted to stop. Cause I'm kinda tired.
But that would leave things unwritten, unsaid.
And too many things are left unsaid.
I love my friends, even when I can't take a decent self portrait.)
I cannot stop. I must keep moving.
(I still dress weird and love life.