"Tell me a story...
....about when you were a little girl" my daughter used to ask, when she herself was just a little girl. Those stories were the easy ones to tell. The ones about the carefree days of childhood. The adventures, the laughter, how each moment was lived just for the one it was.
As we get older the stories get more complex. There are stories we tell others, the stories we hear and the stories we tell ourselves - whether truth or deception.
How do we know about another persons life without the stories? Without the telling of the life through the voice of the one who lived it? Even if we live along side someone for a long time we only have our perception of their life and ours. How differently they might perceive the same events.
Lately I have been thinking a lot about my own story. Especially when I meet new people. My life up to now. How to tell it. How I sometimes don't want to tell it and and other times I do. Part of my not wanting to tell is, I suppose, not wanting certain events in my life to define me. Yet they do don't they? - in some way big or small - because they are part of my story. Without a chapter is the story complete?
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