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  • Writer's pictureKevin Cordi



(the internal monologue of story)


Kevin D. Cordi (June 1998)

Once upon a time, no that is not a good beginning.

Onec when there was no time, nope sounds too original (Could something be too original?)

No, let’s try,

Once, naw too plain, ok ok ok, how about “In a galaxy far far away” Nope been used.

Ok, let’s try it again from the start.

In a day when the animals could talk and people would listen, sounds ok, but does it say what I want it to say?

What do I want it to say? For that matter, what is it?

In the beginning there was story…and God saw that it was good and told his neighbor about it…

Ok Ok Ok

I got it,

Krik! Krak!

No too regional, I want to talk to everyone.

How about…

A long time ago, wait, this could be today or yesterday or even tomorrow.

When times does not seem to matter.

Wait ! Time does matter, what is a story without a sense of place?

What is place without time?

How do I really tell the life of a story, perhaps , it cannot be done.

Perhaps my tale can’t be told, no that can’t be so, it must be told, it is

a tale worth telling.

Everyone should know my beginning.

but do I have a beginning, , maybe I just began.

How can I tell my story?

Maybe, just maybe, I began with the first breath of life,

maybe I am life.

Oops that it is too deep, maybe life and story go hand and hand.

Maybe story began with the first idea,

maybe just maybe,

story is the first idea.

I don’t know to explain this.

Story, it is a quandary. One that is not answerable, but felt.

Wow! Maybe that is it, story is more felt than explained.

Story comes from somewhere different than the head, perhaps

it starts in the heart.


It is the first tear wrapped in words


It is a lie disguised as a dream


It is a comfort from a storm


It is a question not asked, a thought not remembered,

a gift not sought.

Yes, that is it.

I am a gift, a gift of wonder and awe

A gift that changes depending on who holds me, cradles me, savors me,

taste me, believes in me, and most importantly, passes me on.

That is what I am, that is my life, no wonder I can’t explain it,

I am like a river that stretches for miles and miles.

Beneath my water I cover and uncover treasure.

Depending on what boat or hook, you used to snare me, convince me,

sometimes a forgotten wonder,

sometimes just a map,

I change when you think you have me in your hand and in truth, I am

holding you and someone else is holding me.

It is a circle

Of three:



and me.

That is what I am

My life is a gift

that begins and ends and begins again.

You seek me out and sometimes I find you,

but it never ends, only begins.

From one to another,

one to another

and back again.

That is who I am.

*This is a prose/poem that I wrote while attending a class at Northwestern under the direction of the skillful expertise of Rives Collins. He created an environment that made me want to express how a story feels. I share it with you now.

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