Story within a Story
I just want people’s stories.
My own story is not particularly interesting, not now, perhaps not later. Who can say?
I can’t help looking at people and wondering what drives them. Where have they grown up, and what have they experienced that I have not? What sort of twists and contortions and unpredictable events that surely made their lives far more interesting than if it had gone entirely to plan have they experienced?
I want your story, if you will share it. It’s important that your story is not forgotten. I could spend my whole life learning other people’s stories, if only I had the time. Do not tell me a partial story either; tell me the good and the bad, the joys and regrets, the shockers and highlights.
You, old man, who roams the parking lot every evening wearing your safety vest and dragging your garbage bin and plays with kids in the coffeeshop and drives a green truck , have you anything to share with someone who will listen? Have you any children, or grand-children?
You, shaggy haired man sleeping in a parking lot in Chilliwack, who doesn’t look like a Muslim, but then how can I know how a Muslim looks, how did you get there and where have you been that I have not and what stories could you tell me?
You, “Roxanne,” who prowls the streets selling the only thing you have to sell, do you despair or do you rejoice or do you just do and neither despair nor rejoice?
You, Mr. Headline Hog, you tell your story all the time but censor it so much that I am not interested.
Tell me your story, and I will not interrupt. I’ll say hardly a word, but rest assured I am mesmerized.
