Everyone has a story to tell.
I’ve figured this out over the past few years. If you talk to someone long enough, get close enough to someone, oftentimes you’ll get the real story. Of course, there are those people whose stories are never really their own, just an exaggeration. A wish. A craving of what could be but is not. These, too, are good stories. Just not necessarily true stories.
As somewhat of a storyteller in my real-world job, I crave to listen to people’s stories and then share them with others. I scour the Web to read other people’s stories. I make up lists of stories I want to tell. My mind is constantly thinking about other people’s stories and fresh ways to share those tales.
While scouring said Web, I’ve fallen in love with Twitter, a place where I get smatterings of people’s stories. Like I’m standing on my tiptoes, trying to peek inside a frosty or dirty window. I can’t see much. But I see something. What are they doing in there? What did she say? What was his reaction? Did the kids hear that? Why is the dog licking the toilet? How old is that paint job? What is that smell? Why are they listening to talk radio while grandma watches Sweatin’ With the Oldies in the corner of the room? What’s for dinner?
You know. That kinda stuff.
You don’t think like I do, do you? You don’t wonder about people and places and scents and sites and sights and scratches on hands and how they got there.
So when I hear someone’s story, I want more. And oftentimes, sadly, I carry others’ stories with me as if they were my own.
That’s why some of you who know me have noticed that if someone else’s baby is hurting, my heart hurts. If someone’s mom is dying, a little piece of me is dying, too.
Because inside, their hurts are my hurts.
Maybe I would’ve been a good actor. I feel what others are feeling. I hold their stories in my head and the film flickers. Sometimes ALL NIGHT LONG.
I need to keep a journal next to the bed.
I keep saying I’m going to do that.