“Do you believe there are limits to what stories should be told?” he asked.

               She smiled, thinking, and brushing away fallen hair from face so that answering eyes shone and spoke more true. 

               “I am not the author of your stories,” she answered.  “You are; and each author writes their own answer and limits as they see and sense right.

               Still,” she continued, “I believe there is an audience for everything—if one is brave enough to share.”

               She paused, contemplating, as she searched for words and he held listening to both words and signs spoken through spirit.

               “Do you want the story told?” she questioned both rhetoric and direct.  “If so, then do…It’s in our greater openness and vulnerabilities when we are most seen and understood—in all dimensions of our nature.  What do you want known and seen?  Write it…

               Live full.  Write full.  There is an audience for each.”

               “Even if only one?” he half-asked and spoke to self.

               A new light caught and shone through window to soul that are eyes; a warmth and luminosity that changed him in the focus of their energy.  “Even if only one,” she affirmed, smile and conciliation in countenance and soft-spoken affirmation.  “Your words mean more than you might think, even if it’s never said; to another who may feel seen and known and understood—even if only as imagined dream of another—by way and what it is you share. 

               Keep writing,” she told.  “Write your stories, not your bounds, and be open with your spirit.  There is an audience that loves that.  It affects more than you know.”

               She reached for his hands resting on open table in space between.  Holding, feeling his warmth, course and remaining gentleness in working hands, her spirit speaking still through windows into soul, she spoke again, “There is an audience for everything.  If you want the story told, its message and emotions known, then do.  Live and write it full as you wish the Dream to be…then, one day, maybe it will become.”

               She released his hands and drew away, her own returning to rest upon her lap.  Windows to soul closed, and a bound was written.  Story was told, piece of spirit shone; left for him to read and find meaning as he sensed.

               He resolved to write the same.