Story of stories

I want to go to places I usually don’t. To look at pain I usually don’t. To write things nobody wants to. To stay in that dark place. In the shady alleys of my mind. To stay there. To live there. To sleep there. And talk and write whatever I come across. To tell that story. The story no one wants to hear or see. So this is my story. The story that never gets read. The story no one wants to listen to. The story about an ignored story. The story that narrates itself.

This is my living space. These dark alleys, that I stay. If you don’t like what I have to tell, go ignore. Read other stuff. I exist because I do. Not because some one reads me. Its because I am always present. You can never kill me. I have no death. You can ignore me. But you cant destroy me. I am the story of all neglected stories on earth. Stories that don’t get read or heard. Or recommended. The stories no one raves about. I am the mother of all orphaned stories. Stories with no author. Stories with no beginning. No end. No premises. No subject. No object. I am like the forests and rocks and mountains. I existed before you came and will still do after you go away. I am here before anyone started living. I am here before the big bang was here.

You find my stories through your mind. Some you will choose to speak bout. Many you will not even notice. But I always exist. You think you gave me the credit of being a story. You don’t. I give you the credit of having the story in your life. If I did not exist you wont have stories in you. Stories that you can tell the world. Stories you can tell your wives and husbands and children. You are nothing without me. The story of first man in moon was already present. So was the first settlement of humans in mars. You want the story, then see it, acknowledge it and own it. First come first served.