Dear girl in the audience,
I want you to know that I saw them. The tears. They fell silent and I held them. Let them gather and pool in my palms. A gift. And I do not know when they began but I do know how tears can feel like redemption and how tears taste like ocean and how they are always the very thing that needed to happen but you do not realise it until they are falling. So splash me with them. Don’t hide away as if you are scared I might reject such emotion, such a naked sharing. You have given me more than I can possibly contain in the largest part of me. I rejoice with you. Though it may hurt this moment. I rejoice with you still.
There is a way that somebody may stand up here on this stage and give of themselves until they feel small. I know this. I have done this. Too many times. Too many times lost, not present, not here, not now. But now, and here, we two know this moment. It wraps around us. A slow wind. The words now spoken once written on my page by a calloused hand and a broken pencil and all the doubts and fears that accompany the creative pursuit of just the right way to express this. You hear this. These words and I am awed at the sense of meaning found in the connection of a stranger. Your story you find in my own and suddenly we aren’t so lonely any more. Suddenly performer and audience is not the right classification. Suddenly you are crying. Suddenly open. Suddenly the unresolved finds its weave. Suddenly the space between us has crumbled.
It was you that started my own crying. It was you that brought my own healing. Your tears. They spoke so poetic into all I needed to hear. I just wanted you to know that I saw them.
Photo by Will Beale at Ruckus Slam.