My stories

 Any man is a mere collection of stories. His strength lies in how he keeps his stories untold. In our meetings I let go of one story after the other till I became vulnerable, predictable and even worthless. I can see my stories piled by your feet in your living room, tangled, collecting dust and forgotten. 

Once a story is told it loses its significance and charm. May be Adam and Eve were kicked out of paradise as soon as they told all their stories. It has always been about words, everything is shaped by these magical creatures, the sounds that convey our fears, ideas and feelings. I still have words by my side, they are my faithful companions and my only way to recall your love. Will your spell be broken when my stories are forgotten? Will the whole story turn into a past, for both of us, for me at least. Would I ever remember you, smile and move on? 

I lost any perception of time, I’m just passing by the days, weeks and months. I monitor what is happening in my life and around me absentmindedly, and it’s ok. Nothing makes sense, nothing feels right and nothing seems familiar. Maybe I should not have said all my stories, haven’t I been silent for ages? Now, I have no interest to talk if the conversation is not about you. I find solace in my silence, at least I hear the echoes of our conversations and the rhythms of our old laughs. Stories, silence and echoes, the trinity of life, death and resurrection or maybe life, death and all what is remembered.