My school loved engaging us in unimportant activities in the best of days. And it was in one of those days, one rainy Halloween afternoon, that made you wish to do nothing but wrap yourself in a blanket and read a book that understood you better than the world, when the school called my class to finish up a project for tomorrow.
The happiness of that day was stripped away from us. Yet, there happened to be a beam of hope that cut the lights out and left us in darkness. Silence followed, then a thunder…As the darkness covered us all, we decided to make use of our time and enjoy Halloween for once. And what was a better way to enjoy ourselves than tell stories? We sat on the floor, lit our phone flashlights, formed a circle and started one by one telling stories of adventures and naughty children and strict parents. Of the crazy neighbours and loud dogs that followed step by step and run after run; of teachers that looked as if they owned the world and us all. Yet, with all these adventures that made us feel a turmoil of emotions, there was one story that stood out in particular. One of my friends, seated beside me, didn’t have much of adventures, yet she talked about death and sadness and regret in such way that it shook all our hearts. She told the story in ways that made us hear, feel. We applauded her, some even had tears piling in their eyes. And then, after some minutes of coming back from my friend’s story, it was the time to tell mine.
I straightened my back, looked at all my classmates with a smile and started telling my story. It was one of the stories i have thought for so long in my mind. And I remember how excited i was to share it.
As i spoke and trailed over events, elapsed over emotions and tried to find a line that was so clear compared to my web of thoughts, my classmates started to chatter with one another. Not all of them, for some stood up and looked out the window, some others were still seated, looking at me with a smile that stretched far too wide to be real. And the more i saw these events unraveling in front of me, the more i forgot the events of my story. My voice faded. The only thing i could hear were the cracks in my heart. And i stood there, in my own silence. Until, my friend beside me, who had told the story so beautifully, encouraged me to finish. I smiled lightly at her, ran quickly through the events of the book and i stopped.
I tried to cover the cracks in my heart left from that day, yet the same story was repeated again and again…
~☆~
I find stories in everything. And having too much of them is overwhelming. My brain is connecting them all, finding places for all of them in my mind and at the same time creating new ones. My brain is a network of thousands of webs that don’t make sense at all. How can i find just one simple line to deliver to others, when there is so much more to tell?! How can i untangle a mess within seconds? And in those seconds, i need to also think about how i look: do i look weird by not responding at the moment? I should respond quick and fast and of course to have all the appropriate words figured out.
So, every thought rushes out at the same time into a mess, that even I don’t know how to make sense of, let alone the listener. The truth is that i am a listener too. Because if i think before I speak, i will speak after a long while, an eternity, for i need to untangle in the brain the mess to make sense of it. So, speaking out loud will eventually lead to untangling my true thoughts.
So, I stretch the sentences, borrowing time to think of my main argument i should have said beforehand that the other person asked for. How can someone understand my soul, my heart, my beliefs, my experience of the world when I can’t even combine two coherent sentences without adding another supporting sentence and another supporting sentence for the supporting one?
And the truth is that even with this mess i still show up. I still talk, i still try to tell stories to others, because I don’t want to tell myself that i will speak when i feel ready, because then i never will. I want to be consistent with my behaviour. Yet, i am consistent even with my mistakes…
I feel stories piling in my mind, burdening my heart. And the reason why is because stories are not meant to be contained in the human body. They are meant to be shared. They are a form of connection, of understanding from both the storyteller and the receiver.
And yet, the complex web of thoughts feels hard for me to translate to the world.
Yet, from what i am seeing, actually the world doesn’t care. Doesn’t care if i speak or take up space or if i tell stories. I might as well express myself, even if i am not heard or even if i am heard and misunderstood. Because if i dont do it, i betray myself and the stories inside my heart.
As i look at the Forest and everything that is shifting to the sides, i seat down in the middle ground, crossing my legs and looking at the world as i start telling my perspective of everything around.