Once upon a time...

There was a traveling bard, who made it back to his old home city. He remembered it as a city of music, and stories, and when he returned, he found it much the same, but himself changed. Surrounded by so many, so many people, he was glad that he still was himself enough to speak out, share what he had. And so he did.

But before long, he realised that he only ever shared part of what he held inside himself. He told stories upon stories - but not all the stories. There were some he felt too uncertain to be shared, like newborns. He sang songs upon songs, yet neglected to mention the ones he had himself written. He told himself in time he would sing those too, that they were yet too raw, too unpolished. What was truer, he realised, in quiet moments in his attic room, was that he felt himself too raw, too unpolished. Who was he to offer his own work, with such an array of stories and songs from other more experienced bards?

One day, though, he was feeling ill from the crowds and clamour, however friendly, and escaped to the countryside. He sat under a tree, wishing for some wisdom to fall from above, and he paced a field, hoping some answers would spring up under his feet. He would gladly suffer bruises and tumbles as long as they took him in the right direction....

Finally, tired, and no closer to an answer than before, he trudged back to the city. Hoping against hope, he kept his ears open, and eyes expectant. Still nothing. Yet when he reached the square, and saw the friendly nods of the merchants and heard welcoming cries from the urchins on the street, he found that he had found his peace. For as long as he was there, he was there, to sing and story and serve. Beyond that, he could not ask for so much more. And he need not force openness from himself, but neither need he hide in his attic and fine-tune what was in his heart into an age past living. Thus he climbed his stairs with a lighter heart and dusty boots, a new story already forming in his mind, a story of himself....