Stories. The words that make up our past, the words we tell those strangers we’d like to become more to us. Stories. The words we tell those strangers we’ll never get to meet.
Stories. The plane on which reality and imagination collide, a place of endless possibilities.
The truth is, we need stories in a way we can’t even process.
We are stories. You and I. We are the stories we tell about ourselves, about the world around us. We are the stories we use to paint the portrait of the world as it is or as it could be.
We are stories.
Human beings have this remarkable quality: consciousness. We are aware. We see and feel and touch and analyze that. We understand. And then we tell stories, or write them into existence. And it is necessary that we tell those stories; we need to do so in order for the rest of the world to realize that we are(or were) actually alive.
Stories are what’s left after we are gone.
Stories are, indeed, the very fabric of this universe. It’s the only possible way to acknowledge it.
But at the same time we acknowledge and accept our own frailty.
We do not live forever, but our stories might.
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