A story. We all have one.
Some of ours may be worse than others. Others, well, let’s just say that anything that has even the happiest of endings probably started out rough.
Not everyone’s story is meant to be flawless. Or perhaps, even meant to be exemplary. A story in dull black in white is nothing if not clipped with a few shades of gray.
What everyone’s story is meant to be, is different.
A story is one’s character, one’s identity, one’s persona.
It’s what makes you, you and not just a spitting reflection of the person staring back at you in the shattered mirror called life. Each shard is a pinprick in the vast ocean of fragile glass that you carefully tread upon. Sometimes you get cut, a small spurt of blooming crimson rapidly covering rather flawless skin. Other times it’s just a spark of pain silently receding just as quickly as it had come.
‘If the journey was easy, it wouldn’t have been worth it.’
At times, the thought is just a constant reminder of how life can be relentless, with a little less sugar and a lot more salt. But the thought is also one of hope, perhaps even smaller than that which resides in Pandora’s box, but nevertheless, still existent.
‘Who am I?’ You ask.
I’m afraid there isn’t exactly a proper answer to that question.
I could be the girl sitting in the corner of the library with her nose buried deep into a book or the boy whose gaze keeps darting from one end of the window to the other as though suffering from a mild daydream. Perhaps I’m one of the popular one’s, always among a group of friends while silently indulging in the secrets that lay whimpering right underneath the surface.
In all honesty, whoever I am doesn’t really matter.
This story isn’t about me.
It is about you.
About us.
All of us.
And maybe, at the end of the day, that’s what makes this story one that’s worth telling.
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