There are no stories to tell. Only stories to be.

Yesterday afternoon I put down a series of tweets that found their way into something of a story. Part-daydream, part-autobiography, part-fantasy, and perhaps part-real, the words evolved into a curious yarn.

What followed was reminiscent of a favourite, old sweater snagging every hook in sight. People found traces of themselves in these words. And I suppose it’s not surprising. We do not merely tell stories, we are stories. And we respond to that which speaks for us, and to us.

“She was boyish and very beautiful.
I was boyish and much less beautiful. But we were young and I, none the wiser.”

She was called the moon girl.

The moon girl wears flat shoes but tries to stand tall.

She has been on the brink of grown-up-hood for years, but is afraid to go past the Welcome sign. It looks like a lie.

She is argumentative, opinionated, and has too many words. But she shies away from debates. They’re too real.

She has boys who adore her, girls who want her. But she doesn’t believe she has ever met love. Why, hello there.

She sports a headband to keep the hair out of her eyes. There’s nothing she prefers more than hair in her eyes.

She is 17 forever, but feels 29. She is 40 but is 17 forever.

She is all of us, don’t you think? She must be you. She is definitely me.

She is like a cherry blossom, but only on the outside. Inside, is another story. Inside, it is autumn.

She walks with purpose, a stride in every step. She really has nowhere to go.

She is unapproachable. “But what would it be like, to have someone care?” she wonders.

What if someone were to ask, “where are you going” or, “can I take you there?”
“I’d say yes”, she thinks. “Yes, I am certain I would.”

The road was cool, minding its own business; enjoying the week long stretch of sun that coloured its asphalt a slick, illusory black.

With night, the colours would fade and petals would be torn from rubber soles and buried amidst grainy tar.

With the volume up and the windows down, it was a moment of perfect balance. “There is no destination”, she remembered, “there is only this”

The next morning, she was on the highway again hitching a ride to perfection. It didn’t matter where she was going. She knew the way there.

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4 thoughts on “There are no stories to tell. Only stories to be.

  1. I have lady love for you.
    Such pure, immense love that glows like sunshine when I read your words. It’s the tradegy of us morbid souls, nothing but unhappiness makes us happy. You make me so very happy!

  2. ” She is all of us, don’t you think? She must be you. She is definitely me.” – BEAUTIFUL . Your words are so powerful

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