Yesterday I was given the honor of reading a story written by someone I have just met. He is an 8 year old trapped inside of an adult's body. He is loving and kind and funny and flirts like a pro. His story read like this..."Ydhst jhfeur anift police officer hsdt." There were pages. A short story involving dogs and doves. I stood and part of me crumbled. Words. His heart on a page. His love for life expressed. Unreadable, but painstakingly written.
How do we measure a man's soul? Well, I measure through his writings. How do I tell this man that words are sails? They direct us. They take us to places, sometimes by accident. Yesterday was a happy accident. My soul was moved to a different place. As a writer I know that if words do not come out, bad things happen. The imploding, out of control force that sweeps over a person is dangerous. My life needs to be on a page. Without the page, I am not at all alive. It was nice to meet someone who needs to express himself through words. His caregiver said he stayed up "all night writing".
I get it, dude. The respect I have for him right now is actually breaking me.
