So it’s Saturday night and we are childless for the first time since I’ve moved in. It feels… weird. Given that I’ve lived 99.84% of my life NOT raising a child (not really by choice, mind you; another story), the lack of his physical presence is felt.
There are benefits to this, however.
We can actively enjoy ourselves without worry of a knock on the door.
We can inhale. If you will.
And in the middle of it all.
I get. I dunno. Out of my head. In a way that hasn’t happened in, oh gods, a couple of years. Like I start questioning stuff. Random, fluffy bunny thoughts that turn into questions.
So I say to myself, “It’s just the weed talking.”
“Yes, I am the weed,” the voice responds. “And I am talking. Therefore it is the weed talking. And you shall listen.”
The shapeless sounds coalesce and dissipate and reform.
Ultimately, it says: “You’ve got a story to tell.” Right as I’m writing this down, because I excused myself after several minutes (with her permission) to scribble out “Yes, I am the weed, and I am talking.” Because I thought it was funny and needed to be captured.
“You’ve got a story to tell.”
That I haven’t heard in several years. I was wondering if it would ever visit me again.
“You’ve got a story to tell.”
So what is it?
“You’ll know it soon enough.”
Crap. It’s one of those.
“Play the song. Listen. Like you did for A Song For Rachel, so long ago. The story is there. You’ve known for over a week, but tried to deny it.”
I didn’t–
“You did. You felt the connection. You heard the soft, lilting call from your muse. She’s been whispering in your ear.
“Listen. And then tell me what you see.”
That doesn’t make sense. It’s just the weed talking, Paul.
“Yes, I am talking, and you will listen. You’ve got a story to tell.”
…
Hit play.
The Bloody Doors Off 
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