the exaggeration of stories

Without our stories, we are just single experiences, mediocre & waiting quietly for our death.

so you’ve met a storyteller,

one who sits down & is able to enthrall as little as

1 or as many as a

group, with tales of their lives, however remote, however ridiculous &

they help pass the time in this life,

this only life &

we get on along with them, you & i,

we tell them to those we know,

we pass them on to loved ones,

we share them at work & the

stories blossom into better ones,

gathering flowers all the way,

sparking like firecrackers in the sky,

sometimes warm as a brick fireplace in late autumn,

sometimes cold, quick & sad as a death in the family,

but nonetheless,

a good story sticks with us &

we run it over & over in our minds,

we understand the stories that have been passed on through ages,

we understand those just thought up yesterday,

with all the time in the world to retell,

to invite them within, to use them in our daily lives,

be them wise or without motive,

it is the stories gained through communication,

through the conversations brought on spontaneously

without ulterior motivation, without the want to get

something from someone, somewhere &

the beauty reciprocates when we hold them dear,

feeling the need to exchange together the struggles, the

excitements, the horrors & the fascinations

all along the trail leading nowhere whatsoever,

but oh, wasn’t it interesting?