my dearest mercury, you asked me to tell you a story....

Some lines always remain with you, like that one. And sometimes I'm jealous of people's ability to write (coughmonacough) with as much loveliness as summer is standing, still. And reading back on all my posts, I can't decide which ones I like more - the ones that give me snapshots of how my days went and how my thinking was (when words get hyperventilated to screen) or the ones that I put quiet thought into, that sometimes have lyricality and other times are just musings given shape.

At the same time, maybe it's because you choose your words more carefully when you think an audience might be reading or watching, and the voice that comes through isn't really the same as the voice that is yours. I wrote, and now I see the uncertainty and second-guessing of my thoughts in the hesitancy of my language...but now I think it's more comfortable writing because it doesn't really matter anymore.

I'll tell you a secret - I miss stories. Granted, I don't think I'll ever be able to ask for any from anyone with the same laughing exuberance and wheedling that I used to, because too many memories from people now and before overlay everything, but ...they were nice. Nowadays, who tells me about their life and makes me laugh and think of a different world from my own, because I'll not know what axis they revolve around, and want to see and feel for myself?

Maybe that's why I liked Brave and La Luna before it so much. Well, I once told Mona about my plan to write the silliest bedtime stories in the world for my children, if I ever have any, and definitely hers, to twiddle with their heads, and came up with a quite quaint story about why the moon is silver, and La Luna articulated the moonlight in gold and stars and family and just all sorts of adorable in a way that was completely enchanting.

Ahh, no. The obvious ones make me laugh, not smile, no matter what other people surmise, and for now, I'm content listening to whatever words spill over from my own thoughts and whatever's freely offered. From the boring, the interesting, the eloquent and the convicted, the dreamers, the wakers, and the sleepers, but sometimes I wish that I could be content with just silence.

you asked me to tell you a story, and for so long i thought it had reached its end. now i know that this is only a turning point, and the future is yet to be written.