someone in a chat room held me close. Not like that. Like this. S/he told me a story. This soul carried only the author's name. Personal contact was purely by way of PM's like, "give me a moment ... on the way ... wait for me."This happened not long after my partner's death. I was subsumed in grief. Suicidal. Dying inside and willing death’s full hit.
The chat room was a spiritual one. The fighting that went on in there was utter madness. Many logged on just to get a voyeuristic kick from the latest uproar of denunciations. The hype of rage fed my own hysterical energy, though now I am ashamed of that.
That night, this someone started posting chunks of a text. It seemed as though I was the only one who stopped in bitter tracks to notice. I heard a voice. Reading to me. I read the text but I wasn't reading, I was being read to.
On the surface, this was someone copy/pasting. The bane of most chat rooms. Some started to complain. What was going on, what was the point? I found myself asking them to let it be. I needed this. Whatever it was. Please.
Uncharacteristically, conversation started to weave around the text. They sensed I meant it when I said, "please. sshhh." Various rages continued but did not attack the space cleared for whatever this was. Many said, “forget it, I want to hear what's got S so transfixed.” And so, some listened with me.
I was on dial-up, remember that? Most times I could barely spit out a greeting before the line was cut. Not once that night was connection severed.
For well over 4 untouched hours, chunk by chunk, a magnificent story unfolded. Maybe it was being typed out not c/p'd at all. Paragraph by paragraph. Maybe it was something s/he was working on in college. Maybe s/he came into the chat room looking for study-help. What s/he got was my soul instead, wondering silently if there was any point in being earthbound. S/he stayed until the tale was told and I was alive again. Then left. Quietly. Before my tears and thanks could fall on fingertips.
Never ask how or why I hold you. It doesn't matter who I am. We are all storytellers. For and with each other. Always.
*image 1: Susan Seddon-Boulet
