Your life is your story, and my life, my story. If by chance, yours and my story meets, another story comes to be. In this new found story, elements of each our own stories intertwine with one another, producing either a happy story or a sad one. Though there seems to be only one story from our meeting, a melting pot of both our stories, yet that story was never outside of us, except in each of us, as separate stories. There is a meet, a communication, and there is no doubt about that, yet there was never once a story that has been produced between both of us, for there was never a between, except our own storylines about it.
Even if we do not meet or, have not met, our non-meeting churns out yet another story, except unknown, untold. Whether there is a meeting or not, a story is constantly been unravelled. It may be called a story of “if only we have met earlier” or “if only we have not met”, yet both are already in the process of a story unfolding. Irrelevant whether we meet by eye contact, by a call, by physical intimacy, or by story churned out by another, each produces a new storyline, of its own.
Each story we have with someone or something, somewhat produce a tapestry of connections to our already written stories in our mind. There is no one story we connect that is not related to us, even if we think it is not relevant at all. Isn’t irrelevancy another story? No matter how we avoid, or shun, or keep mum, or participate, a story is made out of it. Etched in our mental library, each story defines our next course of perception. And it seems our future is invariably predictable, by the story we buy or not buy into.
There are stories that reinforce our already existing stories. There are stories that add a twist to our suspicious tales. There are stories that we think is worth spreading. There are stories we feel like keeping only to ourselves. There are stories that make us feel hurt. There are stories that make us feel great. There are stories that make us feel invisible. There are stories that make us feel incomplete, or complete. There are also guilty stories and fearful ones. Indeed many are our stories. If ever it were to be compiled and written, it may probably have occupied the entire space on earth.
Who on earth will read our stories? Aren’t we all story lovers? Or else movies would not have been created, or songs sang. Yet, unbeknownst, those who read another becomes their own. The news we read, the Facebook we interact, the mails we received – chunks and chunks of stories enter our heads. From a life of simplicity, we are beings of complexity, only of storylines.
The world is filled with stories, not histories. Yet, those stories are not found outside in the world except in each person’s mind. We are all a walking storyteller, storytelling ourselves to define each day. And when the day is over, another story unfolds, in another reality where I call it a dream, upon waking up from it.
What is life, but an unfoldment of stories? Which story is more real than another? Or is there any reality at all? I am certain when one finally wakes up from it all, probably these hundreds and thousands, and millions of stories will suddenly become meaningless. What is left then?