A story is told, another is made, one is forgotten and finally, this one has just started.

Throughout life, we wake up and go to class, watch the clock tick by, stare at a photo of a mountain ridge, we have no idea where it is or how to get there, on the way home songs come on that bring memories back, friends and late nights, we go to close your eyes waiting to repeat the process and as we do the mountains, friends, and music races through and around the dreams we have.  Is that where we want to leave it?  Who says that we have too? 

As a storyteller, I find myself driven by the stories of others, pushed to find my own and complexed on how to tell them perfectly.  We all have a story, we write the pages to our best-selling novel every moment, some choosing the riskier route, while others play it safe.  Where am I?  I have no idea.

I spent my first two years of college staying up to watch the sun, skipping classes, and otherwise being that one kid who was in your class, you just didn’t see him much.  Kind of like Big Foot, when you see me, no one believes you.  Life was all about the adventure, the new views from a high mountain, new virgin rock to climb, and tall beers ice cold. 

That brings me to now, going to bed earlier and earlier, anxiety attacks on the daily, beers getting father apart, and worst of all, adventure-buddy-less.  It’s not that I don’t have people to go one adventures with, but it was the shock of someone picking you up to get in their car to leave that night someone.  The carless and mindless choices we made, influenced by our friends Killian’s and Pabst.

What does any of this have to do about storytelling, this is my story, the place I am now, is because of those who I have met.  My life as a storyteller, finding why something is important and telling with my voice, that is my story.