David Bronson

It is easy to get lost.

Each life contains within it a countless number of long-lost stories. Time, memory, and circumstance all operate such that most of the things that happen to us pass unnoticed, undocumented, untold.

The adaptive sense that forces us to push on and move through events, people, places, and times, sees to it that things keep moving, that we keep moving, and there are innumerable benefits to this.

But another result is that things fall through the cracks along the way and get lost. Things happen around us and to us and the result is something like a piece of molded clay; impressions are made upon us, and into us, but we keep moving on. There is accumulation, some good, some bad. There is growth and there is damage.

It can also become very easy for a person to get lost inside of him or herself, sometimes for years at a time, in the name of creating something true, but possibly losing sight of the original point of the entire endeavor, which is always simply to express; to express something that felt too significant to simply let fall through the cracks and get lost.

So, like many other works, this story contains within it another story; the story of its own making, which is just another analog for growth, and which, in its own way, is every bit as real, as complex, as painful, difficult, hopeful, and joyous as the original story.