The Miracles called ‘stories'

Stories may not always be about lessons , may not always be about happy endings, may not always be about the turns of event spurred by choices and decisions.

Stories will not always be about the fancy gatherings or happy endings, will not always be about finding solace in weird places or inspiration amidst the noise, Stories will not always be about the trigger or humor.

Stories will tell beyond occurrences, characters and events .

Stories will map out a bridge that carries hearts of those who may be miles apart, Stories will amplify the life of another, voice the challenges of a man, would find words to explain the emotions of a woman who can barely explain how she feels. Stories will craft out art from the mess and mesmerize the muse. Stories will be an helping hand in carrying the burdens of another in such a way that the bearer feels lighter. Stories will unlock a door of freedom and push you to move on .

Stories will carry memories that seem blurred in the busyness of the busstation, moments that time might have attempted to faze out and miracles that litter our doorsteps unnoticed.

Stories are beautiful and oflate I love how stories make me seen. How a random stranger will pen out my feelings and move me to tears . How a foreigner from several miles away will document my migraine in a way that makes me ingrained.

Storytelling reminds me of recycling the plastics in a dumpsite, how that completely irrelevant pieces could be pieced together to hit at an heart and produce different forms of responses. How that once considered waste could be someone’s bait , how that someone’s delusion could be another’s inspiration.

Storytelling reminds me of the refinery , the part of offering freedom from impurities to once stained pieces. The part of moulding , resizing and reducing to a fine piece. The part of glossing the dross in a way to let go of the gross.

Storytelling reminds me of the showroom with various brands and styles owning their mannequin, deserving of a flaunt.

It reminds me of gold, how that the dark moments could be polished into shiny adornments. It remind me of how ugly black parts could make beautiful counterparts.

I love all that stories are:

In articles. In songs.In films.In movies. In podcast. In documentaries.In snippets.in books……

I love that stories litter everywhere;

The cockcrow .The awakening to dawn. The making of breakfast. The crying toddler. The frustrated teenager, The thriving adult, the milkshake. The smiling attendant. The dying mother. The grieving son. The nonchalant daughter. The milkshake. The bus tussle. The scar. The rude conductor. The unending deadlines. The dry palms. The migraines. The fatigued legs. The helping hands. The dusk. The fading of curtains.

I’ve been reading a lot oflate, and I thought to appreciate all those who are instrumental to all the beauty that stories unfold; All those who submit themselves to be used in this movement of crafting monument that live decades and centuries after they are gone.

I would have loved to drop them some claps but guess I can’t, so help me!

Thanks for stopping by, see you soon.❤️

Till then, do enjoy!