We pander the thoughts of ourselves, offering up some resemblance of what dances in our heads. We stagger and glide, sledding down the slopes of understanding. We trudge and skip up those same hills and mountains. We all have voices bantering away in our heads as our hearts plunk at the chords of our own providence. We are the story tellers who bare the exposure of our days in the retelling of significance. I wouldn’t say I am indentured to this craft, but it does strum in every cell of me, and I wake up every morning, if only to show up and be present for it.