Earlier this evening, my brother asked me if I still performed poetry. As I looked at his message, I tried to remember the last time I saw his face within the crowd of anything which I was a part of, when it comes to speaking. Do I still write, do I still perform, do I still care enough to mix words and emotions into tiny packets of love?
The few messages which were exchanged, would lead me to understanding why he was asking. My brother wants to book me, me, the quietly complexed sibling who stews within both darkness and light; by stew I mean overthinks. I suppose for entertainment purposes I could stand before an audience of people whom I wouldn't associate with otherwise and provide them with some form of song and dance. Alas, the entertainment for the night but I wonder how many nights they'd reflect upon the message and stories being shared.
You see, words, for me at least, are greater than an audience, they're greater than forty five minutes on a stage. I've had the pleasure of performing abroad, I've had the pleasure of performing within intimate settings, and for close to six years now, I've had the pleasure of sitting at various computers and telling stories.
It is within these stories, these hundreds of stories, that I've found my voice, my poems, my laughter, my pain, my breath and myself, after being lost for a number of years. My SIMPLE WISH is that others will continue to ask if I still perform, only because it means that I haven't reached out far enough to let them know that I'm still here.