Realism. When the actor see’s their role in the play. Learning that we must be more. Someone has been slowly fading away these past few days. They need one person to serve as a beacon.
Like a lighthouse to a broken ship, lost at sea. Enough for them to jump ship, and swim safely back with at least one thing in tact.
Interpretation, to each their own, battling their own storms and sailing at their own God-given pace.
He left town to become somebody, when if he stayed put, the town would have eventually molded him into more than he could have ever dreamed of.
All for what? What is it we need?
It’s dirt. The soil. Our past, what we wish to plant in the future. And when that rain finally comes, we get soaked. And each on their own journey, we cannot change them, but rather, hint at where our path has led us.
And do I smile through it all? Oh no. Much more to teach, plenty to learn. But these trails, through these parts, recognize my footing. And I am welcomed on familiar trails. Knowing well enough dead ends and what leads to satisfactory peaks. But yes, oftener enough, that riverbed. And all between.
A respect to each, and each their own. All we were looking for was a place called home. Just above the dirt. Denying gravity long enough for reality to set in.
Journalistic Writing