The saddest stories are those that are untold.
Generally I avoid people like the plague. I’ve near perfected the art of social invisibility. Yet I like to
Sometimes I get this urge to just sit next to someone and to ask them their story.
People say ‘how’re you?’ yet it’s not an actual question. Not really. It’s just part of the script. You’re supposed to obediently smile and reply ‘good/fine.’ Often they don’t want to know. You’re not suppose to really answer.
Think of a time when you’ve been happy, sad, excited or worried. What if someone, a stranger, genuinely noticed and asked you why. Would you share your story?
Imagine living your ordinary life thinking your ordinary thoughts feeling ordinary. Yet someone told you that nothing is ever really ordinary. That every little thing matters. That a life isn’t lived unless you tell it’s story. Would you tell them your story? Let your memory enable your voice to write the book of you? The ordinary biography of your ordinary soul?
What if you’re not ordinary after all?
Everybody has a story.