A figure approaches you on this dusty road called life. Indistinct and familiar, unknown but knowing, they are nobody and the every-man. “May I tell you a story?” they ask, wasting no time.
“What kind?” you reply, impatient with interminable day. Fraught with distraction. You’re unsure you want anything new.
“Some, light and airy, still others dour and dread-riddled. Love and death, black dreams and bright hope, man and his fellow, red war and high peace. All can be found here. The cynics, the broken, the strong, and the weak, all woven into one. You need but only listen.”
“Tell me more?” you inquire after minutes of thought.
The storyteller nods. “Though you might not like each tale, inevitably you will find your hero within. Some to hate, and more to admire. It cannot be else. Hide and reveal, warn or conceal, incite or enchant. So falls the nature of storytelling, a reflection of the soul. Only the cruel would change these tales to fit own beliefs.”
“And should I not wish to hear them?”
“No matter that I sing my yarns to a single body or many, they must be told. It is my honor, my duty, my obligation.”
“But who are you?” you demand.
“If I were to speak base truth about myself, I would say that I’m a dreamer. It holds a double meaning. I daydream regularly, oft to diversion. And though my nightly dreams come and go without memory, that which they tell me changes my mood daily.”
“To this point in life, dreaming has never gotten me anywhere.”
The figure leans in, as if sharing a secret with a friend.
“But it will one day.”
The longer the figure speaks and the more that you listen, the more you perceive that you aren’t alone. Others surround you, attend with you, know the words as you do. Love and tears, heartache and fears, it is good to share these worries amongst friends.
For what is existence, but a semi-sweet story?
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