I can’t live without a story.
It’s harsh to say it, but that’s the truth.
When everyone who loves me is gone, if I live on,
I’ll mourn and cry and try to deny it.
But in the end, I will survive—
As long as I have a story.
From the second I was born, I never stopped hearing stories.
They weren’t just in the fairytales my mother read me,
Or the countless books I’ve devoured on my own.
Stories are everywhere to me, slipping through every crack in the sidewalk and hole in the wall.
In every note and rest of a piece of music, I hear battles, deaths, lives, loves, and irony.
My mind compiles every spare tidbit and conversation I overhear, adding them to the never-ending sum of quotes in my compendium of a brain.
I see an old, abandoned cafe and I can’t help but think of all the sights it’s seen and everything that could have happened there.
I feel the crisp autumn wind on my skin and all I can think is that I have to remember this feeling,
I have to remember how it feels to be swept off my feet by an invisible, irresistible force.
Stories are in the details,
The chill that runs down your spine,
The harsh glare in someone’s eyes that make you want to turn and run for your life,
The sparks of color in old broken pieces of glass,
The cold, refreshing sip of a vanilla cream soda,
The lingering smell of rich, heavy smoke after a bonfire.
More than that, stories are made up of people.
The wisecracking friend you turn into a sidekick,
The hero you wish you could be,
The unbearable teacher that’s a villain if you ever met one,
That guy you stare at every day, wondering if he could be your prince.
I live in stories, I won’t deny it.
I spend at least three-quarters of my time thinking of every twist and turn my life could take,
Dreaming up the lives of people who don’t even exist,
Mapping out their every victory and defeat.
It’s not an escape or a distraction.
It’s not a way to block out the pain or tragedy—
It’s my way of creating hope.
Because if every moment of my life is part of a story,
Then there are no coincidences,
And no mistakes.
Everything has a purpose.
That is what keeps me firm in the storm: the hope that I’m part of a bigger story.
Every failure and tragedy is just another plot point in my arc.
When I see people crying out in pain and agony,
There’s only one thing I can do:
I remind them that their stories aren’t over yet.
The story is never over,
Because time never stops,
From the first breath of life to every ticking second of infinity.
I can’t let go of the idea of stories,
Because I have to believe that I’m part of something bigger than my downfalls.
I am more than the mistakes I’ve made,
The rejections I’ve received,
The people of lost,
And the opportunities I didn’t take.
I am part of a story, and that’s all I need.