Stories.
You write them. You read them. You share them or keep them secret or change them (even in your head, if you can) because they don't fit what you wanted to think, what you wanted them to think / feel / know. Every day is stories: a new one every moment, criss-crossing, intersecting, getting mixed up and misremembered and forgotten. Each person, each grin (or ache), each morning scribbling itself up into the corner behind your eyes.
I wonder about your stories - you, all of you around me - because I can't find an end that fits. I can't make sense of me. Part of me wonders if the nonsense in me is also part of everything you are. I want to read you. Not the book you show everyone: the little notes you've hidden to remind you what's important. The page you folded down so you could find it again ... again. The stain from chocolate on your fingers. The question mark. Something in me wants the silence that comes only when I'm sitting, listening to you.
Life gets scribbled into margins ... and the best stories aren't the ones that get the big titles. They're the little things that sneak in when you're busy doing something else: walking the road you never thought would bring you Here.
And they change everything. And they're different for everyone.
Everyone's a book of stories. But Life gets written in the margins.
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