Stories

The world is made up of stories. Some are history, some are now, and others to be told tomorrow. 

The birds' unending flight. A tiny sycamore seed planted on the ground which years from now will become a gigantic playground, perhaps a safe place for someone who wants to see what the world looks like from above. A small particle of a broken glass which was once part of a whole matter. A homeless man. A withered rose in a book's page. Unsent letters in a box. A frown. A smile. A scar. 

It is astonishing to know that every soul you come across with every day has his own story. Strangers walking and talking and performing their daily routine and carrying their own histories. We don't see it mostly. We just see covers. We just see the lead character but not know what his life is about. Strangers are unopened books.

The sad stories. Yes. 

It's not even just the books or the films with tragic endings. Fiction is bearable, because it is fiction. It is not really the stories you read, but the stories you are part of. They tell of pain, of suffering, or longing. It is easy to say to just turn the page and it's going to be alright. But mostly, the next page is the same as the previous one. Because pain is not just a one-page part of one's book. Sometimes it comes in chapters. And you know the difference when you're not and when you're part of a sad story? You carry and feel it. And even though it's not as depressing as Titanic, it weighs more than any other tragic books/films because you experienced it. 

Sad stories are sad. But why do most of us pamper and tolerate pain? 

Maybe my point in writing this is that everywhere we look, we find stories. And every second, every minute, every hour, a story is taking place. This is what the world is made up of; sad and happy stories. But you see, I only managed to write about sad stories. I am as yet in the process of knowing what happy stories are. I promise to write about them soon.