living stories

here are some more musings from my sabbatical.

i set out.

to write.

the third act

with makeup still on,

i let the curtain down,

walked out in search.

of new characters,

a new twist in the plot.

i traveled far,

crossed mountains.

and oceans.

sat alone,

gazing at the horizon,

hoping against hope.

that birds returning home,

changing colors of the sky,

the smell of the ocean,

would spark.

a new intrigue and curiosity.

i met many souls.

who poured their hearts out,

telling me.

how they turned.

their lives around.

some shared.

why they stopped.

writing their story.

and started living again.

as i walked on the sand,

i turned back,

noticed the fading impressions.

of my own footprints.

i remembered.

the theater of the absurd.

and albert camus’ lines.

from “the myth of sisyphus.”

“one must imagine.

sisyphus happy;

we can find meaning.

even without knowing.

why we exist.”

walking home.

with sand in my shoes,

arthritis.

in my knees and neck,

i couldn’t walk anymore,

nor turn my head around.

i could only imagine.

the characters.

in my old script.

must have all left.

to go home.

while i still wandered.

i noticed i am not.

searching anymore.

for a new twist.

or new characters.

for my third act.

instead,

i am engulfed by love.

that needs no end.

i have become.

a character.

in other people’s stories.

my third act.

won’t ever be written;

it lives in the memories,

sweet and sour,

of the people.

whose paths i crossed,

in the stories.

we lived together.

maybe i should hope.

that someday,

someone,

somewhere,

will invite me.

as a character.

in their own story.

i need to open my mind,

be a character.

in someone else’s story.

i should put the pen down.

and just be.

period.