You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Stories’ tag.

Standing up for what is right is a calling;
defending the voices of the minority
is a meaningful and satisfying cause;
being the one to stand before a seemingly overwhelming force
that almost sounds like and can seem as scary
as a lion when it is roaring;
showing all of yourself to prove that you have nothing to fear
is what you have to do sometimes,
even if you have to do it completely naked
riding through a city on the back of a horse.

Everybody has those dreams of themselves
walking around naked;
everybody wishes that they could run around free
like they used to when they were a kid;
as we get older we become more restricted;
as our opinions, hopes, and dreams, change
we want more and more to be protected.

It’s natural to want to surround yourself;
it’s the way of the world to clothe yourself in the fabric
of the time in which you live;
it’s not wrong to sometimes want to walk around in stealth;
it’s comforting to believe and hold close to your heart
the meaning and the message of a myth;
it’s great to stay and return to what makes you smile;
it’s magical to be looking around you and just see stars;
it’s liberating to be the master of your own style;
it’s carnival-like fun and exciting to want to see
and experience all that exists and is waiting to be seen,
that is as thrilling, fascinating, and inspiring,
as the thought of finding water on Mars.

The freedom to be;
the need to see;
the instinct to share;
the thrill to dare;
the simplicity to be basic;
the ease to be happy with what others take for granted
is more hypnotic and enchanting than a magic trick.

Energy never dies.
Stories are retold, and are never over.
The truth is like gold.
You can be who you want to be,
and strip yourself of what you don’t need,
and you too can be a legend and an inspiration for many,
just like the luminary hero of Coventry
who will forever be known as Lady Godiva.

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Memories and thoughts,
voices and echoes,
strangers and shadows;
what is going to happen next no one really knows,
what will happen all depends on where
and in which direction you want to go.
You can be just standing in the sun
when a face from the past will stop you
and say hello to you,
and say also ‘remember me’;
you can be lost in thought enjoying the sunshine
when something amazing and out of the ordinary
might happen and take you away to where you were going
and where you need to be.

It is amazing how many people you remember meeting,
and how many people remember meeting you;
it is the best thing ever when you run into someone
you didn’t think you would ever see again,
and you just start talking like no time has passed
between you seeing each other,
and it all just comes unexpectedly and out of the blue.

When I shake someone’s hand and I say goodbye to them,
I always think that that will be the last time
that I will see them in the light of the day again;
when I say goodbye it always feels like forever;
however, time and again, I am reminded that nothing is final,
and that life is sometimes as predictable as the weather.

There is nothing like seeing surprise in someone’s eyes;
there is nothing that feels like perfection than a connection;
there is nothing that is sweeter than a hopeful dreamer;
there is nothing more inspiring and invigorating
than the stories of a true dreamer, adventurer, traveler, story-teller.

When you leave your home, and you roam;
when you see things without having to look;
when you literally get a feeling in your bones;
when you know that something is meant for you,
and meant to happen to you,
and is more than just good luck;
when someone does something for you
and they do it with no expectation of anything in return,
especially if genuine compassion and generosity
doesn’t happen to you that often,
then you will see and believe that something, or someone,
once seen will never and can never be forgotten.

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Night is when I come alive.
Night is when I am free.
Night is when I feel my drive.
Night is when I am me.
Night is when the universe can truly be seen.
Night is when the sonnet of the stars can be read.
Night is when I go to the places I have never been.
Night is when I live the dream others imagine
as they lie asleep in their bed.
Night is when the heavens look there most beautiful.
Night is when the call of the wild can be heard.
Night is when people change into something
that connects them with that
which goes beyond the physical.
Night is when no one needs to utter a word.
Night is when you see, hear, and feel things
that take your breath away.
Night is when sound reigns supreme.
Night is when you look back and remember
all of the things that happened to you that day.
Night is when you reflect on the way things are,
the way things were, and the way things could have been.
Night is when the best stories are born.
Night is when we all cloak ourselves in the wonder of the dark.
Night is when the world catches it’s breath
before the awe of the new days dawn.
Night is when fire returns to being
the seed of its first spark.
Night is when we find peace.
Night is when we gain a new sight.
Night is when every dog is let off the leash.
Night is when we become the embodiment of the night.

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On a morning walk down the city high-streets,
passed countless people, passed shops,
stores, restaurants of all names,
I am stopped in my tracks instantly when I see
a Golden Gunslinger reading a book
while sitting at the foot of a tree.
I’m not sure how long he had been there,
I’m not sure what he was thinking,
but when I looked at him looking down at his book,
to me, the gunslinger looked
as if he didn’t have a care in the world,
and it seemed as if to the gunslinger
the rest of the world could carry on their way
because he was lost in thought, in state,
and frozen in time, but like a performer at a carnival,
the gunslinger sat with a tin pot
just to the left of his right boot
asking politely of his generous passer-by
for a token of interest, fascination, respect,
and a thought to show that they care.

I sat in-awe of the gunslinger on a bench nearby,
and I even took a picture-
I felt like I was looking back in time,
or as if the gunslinger had been transported to the future,
to our present-
and as I sat looking at him, the sun shone brightly on him,
and made him glow even more golden,
and he looked even more amazing than he did before,
and even the sky above looked even more blue.
I thought long and hard about approaching the gunslinger
and putting some money in his pot,
and I wondered what he would do if I did-
would he lower his book? Draw his gun and take a shot?

The incredible living-statue of the gunslinger
that mesmerised me, painted head to toe in gold,
in himself was a work of art-
he was so brilliant to behold,
because as soon as I saw him I was instantly transported
back in time to my childhood,
and my fantasies of wanting to be a cowboy.
The Golden Gunslinger was like a living photograph
of a time of adventure and a reminder of the heroes
and out-laws that fill the stories of the Wild West
that once was in America that for so many
still holds a special place in their heart;
The Golden Gunslinger reminded me of how care-free
and amzing it is to a child, or someone who acts on and follows
their instinctual passions-
whether you are a man, or a woman, a girl, or a boy.

As time caught up with me,
even though in all the time I was sitting there looking at
the gunslinger he did not move an inch,
I realised that it was time for me to move on.
I decided to approach the gunslinger and give him a coin
from my pocket to repay him for his time,
his inspiration, his generosity, and his golden spirit,
and even as I got closer and closer
he still didn’t look up or look away from his book
and didn’t for a second flinch;
and then, as soon as my £2 coin hit the rest of the coins
in his golden pot and made a sound,
The Golden Gunslinger suddenly came alive
and he looked up at me-
he lifted his left hand to touch the rim of his Stetson,
he looked right into my eyes, and I saw him smile
without him having to move his lips at all,
and he bowed his head slightly,
and it was in that moment that I smiled too
in appreciation, and I too began to shine as the sun shone.

As I stepped back the gunslinger reverted back
to the pose in which I first saw him,
and he immediately went back to his prefered-posture
of reading his book, at-ease against the base of his tree;
while I turned to my right and continued to walk down the high-street-
I didn’t look back, but I knew and I was so glad to have met him,
to have given him my time, and for him to have given his time to me
and to everyone who saw him, because he reminded me
in lots of ways of myself, and he was obviously someone
of great patience and a deep-thinker.
I promised myself to capture this moment that would never come again
in as much detail and with as much meaning as I could,
and I also promised that I would never forget
The Golden Gunslinger.

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We love something with a history,
we adore someone who has a story-
and, sometimes, the more checkered the history,
and the more complicated the story,
the more that they garner the most attention,
and stir the greater furore.

People talk about and remember the things and the people
that make them think and feel something-
it could be the cost of life of a massacre;
or the remembrance of happiness
brought about by the song of a bell ring.

No one is one colour,
but people who judge tend to see themselves as if they are-
its not their fault that they do- it is just who we are:
we can’t like or love everything and everyone-
if that were the case, we would all miss the detail and the nuances
of something or someones defining characteristic
that sets them apart from the other boats on the ocean-
if that were the case, then there would be no mysteries, secrets,
conversation, or fun.

We seldom encounter the same characters in life
as we do in the pages of a book-
most of the time the characters of life do and say things
that are far more noticeable and accentuated,
and upon reflection are far more glaringly obvious;
however, people are often blinded by light,
and do not give something or someone another look.

Two dimensional characters are just two dimensional characters:
they tell us their story and we believe them,
because their words are all that we have to go on;
but even after years of reading their quotations,
our image of them continues to live like it had never really changed-
a constant drawing of calm.

Multi-dimensional characters:
people of everyday life, who change more in one day than they know;
the same multi-dimensional characters that people adore
for not being a single white light,
but for being a spectrum of all colour
that brightens, changes, flickers, and stutters:
perhaps they are the reason that we seek complexity in our lives,
and in our stories-
that which is always at the heart of all the best dark characters.

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