L.E. Sullivan
- How We Are
- Jun 19, 2020
- 1 min read
Updated: Jun 19, 2020
You should be writing. This is the voice in my head. Shadowy. A little metallic, as if it's a machine or perhaps I am.
But all I can think of is Algia Mae Hinton and Sister Rosetta Thorpe. Cora Fluker building her own guitar in the woods of Alabama--maybe a reprieve from the memory of almost being beaten to death.
The medicine of music.
I've grown calluses I never thought I could grow. And in the span of the world pressing down on my head--our heads--grown noise into melody.
I am not a machine. The short stories and novels must resume, but for now, I'll let nylons and steel strings teach me to rest. To remember that I should be here. That's all.
We should be here.
Dear Sully, who might go by Erika or Lauren the rest of the time,
But you are Sully who I know of brilliance and, like I said earlier, I wish I could teleport to you so I could hear you play the guitar and see your face and hear your words. But, the best thing about these times, is at least I have electrons to bring the words in pixels to me. You are neither callous nor machine, but music itself. I miss you, Sully.