Story board

His light was of the vulnerable kind.

On and off. Off and on.

Flickering.

His light was soft and true. So real you could almost touch it.
It is when it is soft and true …. . It is when it is real, that we doubt. The self then doubts too. So it goes off and on just to see. On and off.

The fake are often so bright, that we take it for granted that they are true light. They do too, you see. It is never just a game, there is a real faith there too. I am. I will grow. There is hope. Always, in everyone.

Back to our vulnerable light boy
and his hopes to be a vulnerable light man.

It was on this light that he wrote his story.

I want you to see that. On his light he wrote his story.

So we only get to know certain chapters off it. The chapters written when the light was on. Or maybe, just maybe, it was when it was off that the chalk he used was visible?

Could it be?
Maybe?

Maybe it is in darkness that we see what we are made out of.
What our story really is. Rather than reflected to us, it glows to us out of our own darkness as we grow?

Story board

I don’t know, but I do know that his light pulled the others in.
They would flock around him and yet not be aware of what they saw. Sometimes they held it for him. His light, his compass. They held it as he read off of it, to them , to himself: here we are. Together. Together and comfy. All a glow.

It was just a bright and comfy and lit place to be, you see.

This little, vulnerable, light story book of a boy.

But when it was off, his light, so were they.

No one there to read his story.

No one there for him in the darkness. No one to relight his flickering self doubt.

In this darkness it was as if he were out to sea, all alone and then ……

He did not grow up to be a man.
He did not grow up to be.
He did not grow up.
He did not grow.
He did not.
He did.
He.
His light.
It was his story board.
It was his compass.

We could have held it for him to read.
We could have.